


Only I Can Feel You | Hannigram

by RyeAmbrose



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Death, Emotional Manipulation, Four Horsemen, Gore, Graphic, M/M, Magical Realism, Murder Husbands, Mystery, Serial Killer, Smut, Therapy, mature - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 30,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26417446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyeAmbrose/pseuds/RyeAmbrose
Summary: UPDATES ON HOLD. Story is fully completed on Wattpad under the same title + username! :)...FBI Profiler, Will Graham, is secretly a killer.As a child, he met Death, and the experience was invigorating. To see him again, he killed and killed, but no matter the attempts, Death never showed. It wasn't until a certain turn of events led him to his long-awaited meeting.Death had a son, and his name is Hannibal Lecter.COMPLETED - May 12, 2020
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Abigail Hobbs/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 20
Kudos: 25





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and welcome to my Hannigram fanfiction, "Only I Can Feel You."
> 
> This is one of my first completed works, and I'm quite proud with it. I hope you like the story just as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Updates will be every Sunday and Wednesday around 5pm EST.
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to click on this work, and enjoy your reading! <3
> 
> Love,  
> Ambrose x

...

Will Graham always had a… _fascination_ with Death.

He met him at an early age—four years old, to be exact. Death took his mother, and with her soul, his father’s, as well. Despite the hole he tore through their family, Will couldn’t help but yearn for his presence; to see his cold, calculated hands at work, tearing lives from their faulty shells. It was intoxicating, the way his air wrapped around Will that day, heavy and thick with foreboding power. A promise. An unspoken pact.

That wouldn’t be the only time Will would see Death.

He made sure of it.

Toying with weapons at an early age, begging his father to take him hunting, reading books about murder and forensics. The practices he indulged in scared others, but he could care less. He could _feel_ Death’s smile over his shoulder. How he took after _him_ like a son.

Little did he know how disappointed he would be.

It was a sunny evening in July when Will Graham—only a teenager—tried to meet Death again. His father carved wood in the garage, his clothes dusty and fragrant with oak. Upon his son’s arrival, he looked over his shoulder with a broad smile in greeting.

That is, until he saw the gun in Will’s hand.

It was heavy, _meant_ for his grip, the cool weight of silver promising on his skin. Will rose the revolver, already cocked, and pulled the trigger before his father could bat an eye. Blood sprayed on the walls as the bullet ripped through his head. He fell to the floor. Dead. Eyes wide and pooling with the dripping blood.

Quiet washed over Will. Pleasure flooded his veins, pooled through him like the gentle trickling of water—like the blood flowing on the floor.

As the gun quivered in his hand, he waited. That familiar air swarmed him, cradling his body just like the day his mother died; heavy and thick, dripping with power. _Death._ Will expected someone to show. Someone to kneel by his father’s body and rip his bloodied soul away.

But nothing came.

Will rushed forward and checked his father’s pulse, brows furrowing. No pulse. Dead. _Where was Death?_

Did he not want to show? Was this death not good enough?

Will pulled back and blankly stared at the body. _Did he kill him wrong?_

It wasn’t until later that he learned.

Death only came when death wasn’t _meant_ to _be_ . He didn’t come for murderers. He came for _mourners_ . His presence _comforted them._ Numbed their sorrows.

Death was _scared_ of people like Will. He didn’t _visit_ people like him.

But despite the years that passed—despite the realization of this information—Will Graham still killed. Killed, and tricked, and mauled, and broke. It became his mission. His life goal. To meet Death again.

No matter what, he would find a way to see Death’s face. Find a way to _meet_ him. Find a way to _talk_ to him. _Kill_ with him.

Perhaps that’s why he joined the FBI.

...


	2. 2

Blood soaked the snow in a fifty-foot radius. A run-away victim, cut short by her murderer’s jaws.

“So?” Jack Crawford breathed, hot breath clouding in the wintry air. “How’d he do it?”

Will opened his eyes, glancing at Jack. “He knew her.” He crammed his hands into his pockets. “Loved her, actually. He  _ wanted  _ to see her run away.” They began to walk beside the trail of blood. “But seeing her run reminded him of her leaving him. The pain was so strong, he finally killed her.”

Jack nodded, squinting over the bright snow and blood. “Any history of this man? Occupation, anything else?”

Will sighed into his scarf. “He’s an artist. The way he killed her is almost like he was…  _ painting.”  _ As they headed back to the car, he pointed out the wounds on their latest victim. Five daunting, wet gashes in the woman’s stomach. “Stabbed her once, but it wasn’t enough. He dealt the final blows with those last four.” They walked away from the body. “He wanted to  _ honor  _ her the best he could. Make her one of his canvases.”

They slipped into the black car and drove off to the Behavioral Analysis Unit—the BAU—where they would further assess the victim’s body. When they walked into the lab, the body greeted them, laid on a metal table. A white sheet pooled over her frame, rolled down to reveal the wounds. Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller fussed about the lab, examining the wounds and bringing up files of the victim.

“Kitchen knife,” Price said. “Eight inches.” He waved at the body as Zeller sidled up to it.

“The first one was here, in her kidney,” Zeller chimed. “Shallow. This guy’s pretty inexperienced from the looks of—”

“He was hesitant,” Will muttered. “He didn’t know if killing her was to take the pain away or to take control.”

Price scurried up with a file, opening it on a nearby table. “Mary Schiro. 35, resident of Baltimore, Maryland, and”—he pointed at the papers—”formerly married to a  _ Michael Hanson.” _

“There’s our murderer,” said Zeller.

Will shook his head, hands in his pockets. “No, no… too easy,” he mumbled. “Our killer acted out of rage. Jealousy and pain.”

“Exactly,” Price said pointedly. “She divorces him, he gets angry and kills her. Simple.”

Will leaned towards Jack. “He’s not the killer.”

He earned a nod. “We still have to interview him; get a few answers, hope to find a lead on the case. You up for the task?”

Will grimaced, pushing up his glasses as he glanced back at the body. “Interviewing,” he shuddered. “Not really my…  _ strong  _ suit.  _ People _ lead to  _ interactions.” _

Jack smirked, glancing at the two specialists. “You two keep working; maybe you can find some more information.” He walked away with Will following close by. “Accompany me, then. You’ll only have to ask questions when you see fit.”

Will sighed. “I’ll think of the case. Call me when you’re ready.”

Jack nodded, and the two separated ways. Will to his house and Jack to his office.

  
  
  


Will Graham took a calm journey home. Arriving on the porch, however, brought an eerie sense of dread. A heavy, thick air, pulsing with—

Will’s heart pumped.

_ Death was here. _

He jammed in the key and burst open the door, greeted with his barking, frantic dogs. They jumped at him, some whining, and as he progressed through the house, the scent of Death grew stronger.

His heart pumped faster.

Around the corner, in the kitchen. He peered through and—

Nothing.

No man. No trace.

All but his scent and the dead dog on the tiled floor.

“Oh, Buster,” Will shouted, rushing over to the animal. His other dogs followed, barking and tails wagging. Graham cradled the fallen animal in his arms, still warm and limp. He hadn’t been dead for long.  _ He just missed Death. _

Will shushed the other dogs, staring down at Buster. A stray that he’d taken care of, just like the others. He met the dog on a sunny morning, before he went fishing—alone and collarless by the river. But, despite the pleasant memories floating about his head, grief didn’t consume him.

He was way past mourning.

Will stood up with the dog in his arms, walking back outside and grabbing a shovel along the way. A few dogs followed, hovering about him as he set to work.

_ What if this meant something? _

Will safely set Buster aside and pierced the dirt with his shovel. A satisfying thud ailed his thoughts.

_ Did Death visit for a reason? _

Another thud.

Buster was a perfectly healthy dog. Surely he didn’t fall ill.

_ Thud, thud, thud. _

Will leaned back and wiped his forehead, looking down at the small, makeshift grave. He dropped the shovel, shimmied off his rugged jacket, and wrapped Buster in it, carefully setting him down. After a deep breath and a respectful moment of silence, he picked up the shovel again and buried his dog.

Death was close, and he would see him again this time.

He’d make sure of it.


	3. 3

Death was close.

Will could  _ sense  _ his presence.  _ Breathe  _ it in.

Through the car window, houses and cars flitted by, slowing as they arrived at their destination. Michael Hanson’s home. Its worn paint echoed dully, once welcoming but now desolate. Closed shutters and a tightly-locked door greeted them as they stepped onto the porch.

Crawford knocked on the door, glancing at Will.

“Can’t have you spacing on me now,” he muttered, breath clouding in the cold. Graham huffed, tearing his thoughts from Death’s recent visit.

“I’m not.”

The door creaked open, and a man—Michael—peered through, eyes sunken and feeble. “May I help you?”

“Yes, I’m FBI Special Agent Jack Crawford”—he rose his badge—”and this is Will Graham. We’d like to interview you on the case of your ex-wife, Mary Schiro.”

Michael hesitated, then opened the door, seating them in the living room. “I learned about it yesterday,” he said. “I just… I can’t  _ believe  _ it.”

“Many things are hard to believe,” muttered Will, walking about the outskirts of the room and examining every inch of the house. Michael wearily glanced at him, finding better comfort in Jack’s presence.

“Mr. Hanson,” said Crawford, “we believe one of Mary’s friends murdered her. Perhaps an ex-lover. Would you know anyone who fits the profile?”

“W-well, there weren’t many people she talked to,” Hanson replied. “There was this man…”

“Was he an artist?” Will butt in.

Michael nodded, glancing at the roaming man. “Mary rarely talked about him, but he came up during dinner one night. Bram Bates. She told me how he started getting too close to her. Creeped her out so much she cut ties with him.”

Crawford nodded. “Have you ever seen Bram Bates?”

“Only once, but I’ll never forget it,” breathed Michael. “He looked at me with such a resentful gaze—I thought he’d kill me right then and there.”

Will sat down on an empty sofa. “Do you know where he lives?”

Hanson shook his head. “No. B-but I know his art shop: Merry Brushes. At least an hour away from here.”

Graham scoffed at that. “He carried her name wherever he went.”

“We noticed that you recently divorced Mary Schiro,” said Jack. “May we ask the reason for this?”

Michael twisted his hands, lower lip trembling. “I mean—I—I-I know I shouldn’t—I really am a terrible husband—”

“It was because of Bates, wasn’t it,” Will said, leaning forward. Michael swallowed. “What did he do, Mr. Hanson?”

He took a deep breath, glancing away from their prying eyes. “Y-you can’t really…  _ blame  _ me. A-after all, he—”

“Spit it out,” said Will. A short pause fell over them, and Hanson took another breath.

“H-he confronted me one night. In my very room, while my wife was out with friends.” He thickly swallowed. “He threatened m-me with a knife. Told me I  _ didn’t belong  _ with Mary _.  _ That he’d  _ make things right  _ again. _ ” _

Jack Crawford leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “And what did you do?”

“I didn’t have to do anything,” spluttered Hanson. “H-he just…  _ left.” _

“No threats, no warnings, just…?”

“Out the window,” Michael said.

Crawford glanced over at Will, who gave a confirming nod. With that, the special agent stood, straightening his jacket and offering a hand. “Well, Mr. Hanson,” he said, shaking his hand firmly, “we appreciate your time. We’ll make sure Bates is caught.”

Hanson nodded, and the two agents left, slipping back into the car.

“Up for another interview?” teased Crawford, the car rumbling to life at the turn of his key. They rolled out of the driveway, already headed towards the art shop.

“Only if you do the talking,” Will smirked.

An hour later, they arrived at the art shop—a dingy place in the bad streets of Baltimore. Its blue sign of  _ Merry Brushes  _ peeled, echoing of old kindergarten days. In the distance, rabid dogs barked and people shouted, swirling into the cacophony of honking cars and screeching tires.

“Have your gun?” said Crawford. Will nodded, patting his hip, and they slipped out of the car. A dull air swarmed the shop, and its lights were dark. They sidled up to the entrance and peered through the glass door, noting the disarray of shelves and racks. 

Crawford clicked his tongue. “Poor place looks like a nightmare.”

Will leaned forward and knocked on the door, the surface quivering beneath his fist. “He’s here.” He glanced at Jack’s skeptical gaze, and to prove the fact, a built man slyly swung upon the door.

“Can I help you?” came the gruff greeting.

Crawford straightened, showing his badge. “Yes. FBI Special Agents Crawford and Graham. We’re here for the murder of Mary Schiro, of which we believed you’ve orchestrated.”

Bram Bates tilted his head, hand clutching the door. He sighed and shrugged, scratching his scruff. “Go n’ cuff me, officer. I just closed up shop for good. Ain’t nothing left for me in this world anymore.”

He stepped forward with offered wrists, and Jack stepped back, hand ghosting over his holster. Bates smirked, eyes half-lidded. “Go on, sirs.” He bowed.  _ “Take me away.” _

The agents exchanged glances, and Crawford hastily obliged, securing the cuffs against him. He cleared his throat, but before he opened his mouth, Bates chuckled.

“I know my rights, no need to say em,” he laughed. “We going, or what?”

Crawford scoffed and dragged Bram forward, stuffing him in the back of the car. Before they entered the front, the agent spoke up.

“Don’t you think this is too easy?” prattled Jack.

Will stared at him before shaking his head and slipping into the car, Crawford hesitantly following suit. Their drive back to the agency was silent.

  
  


Will roamed the edges of Jack’s office, glancing at papers of missing children and unsolved cases. His voice rolled about the walls, but it did nothing to keep him from daydreaming.

“Will.”

He stared into the eyes of Mary Schiro, a recent addition to the wall of papers.

_ “Will.” _

He looked over his shoulder, blinking with an inquiring hum. Crawford sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I was just talking about the  _ case  _ you’re looking at,” grumbled Jack, hand waving to Mary Schiro’s paper. “Bates couldn’t have given himself away so easy. Not if he was acting on jealousy, like you said.”

Will stared at Jack through heavy lashes. “You of all people should be used to this,” he said. _“Yes,_ we should always have the benefit of the doubt but”—his eyes squinted—“don’t you remember Katherine Pimms? Gave herself away, just like that. Just like some other cases we’ve had.” He shrugged to the side. “Perhaps we have ourselves another easy one.”

Crawford made a motion of rebuttal, but Will quickly cut in. “Look. We’ll stay alert. Look for more clues, but  _ I  _ don’t think we should be so invested in a case already solved.”

“Very well,” sighed Crawford. “But if something happens—”

A firm knock on the doorway. “Jack?”

“What,” he snapped, looking at the visitor. Beverly Katz. 

“You might want to see this.”

Jack and Will exchanged looks, and they tore from their positions, following after a rushing Beverly. “He’s been murdered,” she was saying. “Michael Hanson. But there’s no evidence of struggle, no wounds—nothing. Just a black handprint on his chest.”

Will’s breath stopped, and he froze in place. Beverly and Jack looked back at him.

“What did it look like?” he whispered.

Beverly glanced at Jack, the two of them unnerved at his sudden demeanour. “Is there something wrong?” Her features tensed. “Have you seen a case like this before?”

Will rushed ahead, tearing past them. “I want to see the body. Now.”

The two exchanged another glance, but followed, resuming their journey. They took one car, raced to Michael Hanson’s house, and ducked beneath the yellow caution tape. LED lights stabbed the air and the surrounding officers, sickeningly bright.

“In the living room,” said Katz.

They slipped through the door, greeted with the same room where Will and Jack interviewed Hanson. His body slumped on the green sofa, eyes drooped and glazed, as if in a dreamlike state. 

Will rushed forward and examined Michael’s chest, cold now. He’d been dead for at least six hours. 

Shoving on rubber gloves, Will prodded the handprint, solid black and daunting like pure ink. It was warm.

“Yes…” he whispered, fingers trembling. He took a deep breath, and that heavy, thick air swarmed his lungs,  _ dripping  _ with power. A faint smile stole his lips. “Yes…”

This was the hand of Death  _ himself. _

“What is it?” demanded Crawford. Will smirked, disposing his gloves and shaking his head.

“This… this is the work of  _ no ordinary  _ man,” he said, satisfied. “Bates found himself someone  _ much  _ higher than he’ll ever be. Higher than  _ any  _ of us will ever be.”

He looked around at the scene, and his hands twitched. The lack of blood really did unnerve him. It begged him to kill again. Make the scene  _ look right. _

“What does that mean, Will?” said Jack. 

Will rose a hand to dismiss them, and he closed his eyes, heart pounding faster than their retreating footsteps. The scene cleared— _ swish...swish _ —and suddenly, Hanson was roaming the house, brewing himself a cup of tea. Will slowly opened his eyes, wading into the room, eyeing Hanson as he sat on the sofa with his cuppa. A knock tore on the door.

Michael snapped towards the sound, and Will followed, eyes lazily taking in the scene. Carefully, Hanson croaked a “Come in,” and the door creaked open.

_ No fingerprints, no evidence,  _ rang the officer’s report in his head, and a regal man slipped his way through the door. Calm and composed. 

Will always imagined what Death would look like. Countless days, he spent daydreaming— _ wondering  _ how Death appeared. How his eyes glimmered, or how graceful he walked. How he  _ killed. _

Will stared at his construction of Death, slowly wading into the scene. He always hated assuming what he looked like—always pictured Death in a blurry way. Assumption led to disappointment. But what he always held onto was the image of Death’s gait: something eerie and regal,  _ made  _ with importance. One foot in front of the other, each step  _ hissing  _ with meaning.

Hanson sat still on the sofa, setting down his cup. “May I help you?”

Death looked down at him, face drawn back and emotionless. “You’ve lived a lax life, Michael Hanson,” he breathed, kneeling down before him. “But lately, it’s been riddled with unease—to the fault of Bram Bates.”

Hanson swallowed, staring down at him. “I-I’ve never seen you before.” His fingers dug into the sofa. “How do you know my name?”

“I know all names,” Death replied, head tilting eerily. “I know all stories. I know when they end, or when they  _ should  _ end. I know when I  _ wish  _ to know.”

Hanson quivered in his seat, and Death placed a calm, cool hand on Michael’s knee, stilling him. “Do not fear me, Michael,” he said, voice breathless and riddled with authority. Hanson nodded, relaxing on the sofa. “I am saving you from a more brutal death. You should be honored.”

Michael swallowed and nodded, watching as Death rose. He placed a hand on his chest, his print clean and neat, and Hanson’s eyes closed with a final motion. Absolutely peaceful.

Will inhaled and opened his eyes, and Hanson’s body returned to the way they found it. Limp and cold, growing stiff, and with the black handprint stark against his pale skin. Crawford walked into the room.

“Well?”

Graham looked over his shoulder, slipping out of the house with him. “Tell me, Jack,” he began. “Have you ever…  _ questioned  _ the concept of Death?”

Jack stared at him, huffing into the cold air as he looked away. “I’m sure we all do.” His eyes glazed over. “It’s how we lose people. Family, friends…”

“But have you ever put a face to the act?”

Crawford stopped, feet crunching in the snow. “You’re not suggesting that this was done by some  _ storytale.” _

“And you expect me to applaud your belief in  _ God.” _

Jack scoffed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Fair point,” he hummed. “But you can’t  _ really  _ believe that… that Hanson could’ve died by  _ supernatural  _ means.”

They loaded back into the car, rubbing their hands and blasting the heat to warm up.

“I’ve seen it before, Jack.” He stared pointedly at the agent. “The same handprint, the same  _ smell.”  _ He looked out the window at the blaring lights and scurrying officers. “Anyone can see it. There’s no evidence,  _ nothing.  _ No struggle, no sign of injury or poison.” He nodded firmly. “This was Death’s work.”

“But why would  _ Death  _ agree to work with  _ Bram Bates?” _

Will smiled, giving a silent chuckle. “Well, maybe, Jack”—his eyes glimmered as he glanced over at him—“maybe Death’s finally found his niche.”


	4. 4

Not enough.

The skin slid beneath his blade, wetting his fingers with thick, red blood. It swirled down the drain, washing from his hands like a waterfall, until finally, it stopped dripping. 

Will leaned forward and turned off the tap, setting the freshly-gutted fish on a cutting board and looking down at his recent catch.

In the middle of nowhere—Wolftrap, Virginia, to be exact—Will had found an alternative hobby to killing. Fishing was a much more… _humane_ task, and, dare he admit, quite relaxing.

So rather than the sounds of human screams, he settled with the panicked writhing of fish. Rather than luring his mortal bait into his trap, he made lures for the fish.

It was a lowly way to live—tranquil, one could say—but he learned to accept it. Of course, he still killed the occasional person who dared to roam so close to his home, but he was smart enough. Working with the FBI, it was the best idea to stay low under the radar.

Will chose a new blade, decapitating his catch with a smile. Those beady black eyes stared up at him, glazed and vacant, and he threw it back to one of the dogs. His knife expertly set to work, and once he had decent fillets, he prepared the stove, throwing a dash of oil, salt, and pepper into the pan. Cooking was one of his less-indulged pleasures; time and laziness got in the way of it.

He laid the fillets in the skillet, satisfied with the hissing sound of simmering oil and flesh against metal. Graham leaned against the counter with a spatula in hand, staring down at the cooking meat.

He wondered if Death cooked.

Once the fish was ready, he pulled himself from the thought, preparing a plate and bringing it to the table. Before he forgot, he fed the dogs, finally settling himself in his chair and savoring his meal. The flesh was warm—salty with the sting of lemon. The taste flicked an urge deep within him. The urge to kill.

Will stared down at the fish, chewing slowly. Suddenly, a human arm lay before him, bleeding and fresh, and the meat in his mouth grew placid and juicy. He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and looked back down at the normal plate of half-eaten fish.

Despite his killing sprees, Will never thought of… _eating_ his catches. Of course, the thought floated about his head every once and a while, but to actually _enact_ the proposition…

The phone blared, tearing him from his thoughts. He snatched it from the table and answered.

“Hello?”

“Another murder.” Jack’s voice. “I want you here, now.”

Graham sprang up, already pulling on his jacket. “Send me the address. I’ll be there soon.”

“Will.”

“Yes?” he asked, one foot out the door. He lingered at the doorway, the cold biting his cheeks. Jack Crawford took a deep breath on the line.

“Before you come—are you sure you’re okay? I don’t want a mishap like last time.”

Will scoffed, slipping from the house and into his car. _Last time._ Wow, Jack. “I’m _fine._ I’m better now, remember?”

He pulled out of the driveway.

“Alana says otherwise,” hummed Crawford. Will’s hand clenched around the wheel at her name, almost veering him off the road.

“Look, I’ll be there soon. Don’t make me change my mind.”

With that, he hung up, sighing and slipping his phone away. For God’s sake, he was a murderer _himself._ Last time was only a moment of vulnerability. These things didn’t unnerve him anymore—he was stronger than that.

He clutched the wheel, took a deep breath, and sighed, headed towards the address Jack sent him.

  
  


Thirty minutes later, Will Graham arrived in Laurel, Maryland by noon. 

The sun’s rays stabbed the snow-covered scene, piercing one’s eyes and making them squint. Officers stepped around yellow numbers, discussing or examining information, but the main attraction lingered around the abandoned barn, its wooden panels broken and peeled.

As Will ducked under the yellow tape, Jack Crawford greeted him.

“Two kids,” he said, leading him towards the barn. “Eyes gouged out. Their bodies painted with their own blood. Looks of it says it happened last night.”

They entered the barn, and the scent of blood hit them like a wave. Will merely closed his eyes, heart thrumming at the smell. _Keep the urges at bay._

“Right here,” said Crawford as they progressed into the barn. On the floor lay two kids, most likely brother and sister, with blood smeared over their chests. Will stepped close, peering over the work.

“We’ve ourselves a _religious_ killer,” Graham muttered, eyes sweeping down the Christian cross streaks on their chests. He examined the scene, taking in their surroundings and the children’s bodies. “To him, this was an act of God _._ Or a mocking of Him. _”_

Will inhaled, and the metallic hit of blood singed his nostrils. Death was not here.

He glanced back at Crawford, who gave a nod, waving a hand and rallying the officers together. “Clear the scene!” he ordered, leading them out. Will stood there, alone, reveling in the quiet and staring down at the victims. 

Then he closed his eyes.

Two kids, bickering and alive, walked ahead of him in the snow. Will watched from the distance, their figures almost invisible in the dark, and slowly approached them. The kids continued their quarrel, prodding each other. Who was brave enough to enter the big, scary barn?

“Dad said ghosts live there,” the brother teased. Young, just like his sister.

“I’m not afraid of ghosts,” she defended.

Will loomed behind them, determining the killer’s actions. The barn was only feet away.

“I confront the children,” he whispered, voice low. The kids whipped around to face him, eyes wide and afraid. “I’ve been waiting for this moment. Waiting for an innocent soul to jump into my arms.” His head tilted, a smile reaching his lips. “And now I have _two._ God must be smiling down on me.”

He grabbed the siblings’ arms and dragged their writhing figures into the barn, heart thrumming.

“They’re screaming, but no one can hear them,” he narrated, jamming the door shut. “No one’s around for miles.”

He threw them to the floor, sobs coaxing the air. From his pocket, he slipped out a knife and rose his head to the sky. “Before I kill them, I pray to God.” He slowly looked back down at the trembling children, smiling. “And then I go in for the kill.”

In a flash, he slit their throats, their bodies spazzing and thudding to the ground. Will dragged them next to each other, brother and sister, so they could be in death together. He kneeled by them, gazing into their wide, glazed-over eyes. So full of innocence and childish delight.

“I examine their eyes,” he whispered, twisting the knife in his hand. “I will kill like this again. Because this world is plagued with chaos and _sin.”_ He drove the knife into the sister’s skull, carving around the sockets and pulling out a clump of veins, muscle, and a beautiful, vacant eye. 

A child’s eye.

“This eye,” he breathed, caressing it in his fingers, “has not seen sin.” He smiled, driving the knife in the other eye, blood spraying on his face. “It has only seen innocence. Only _thinks_ innocence.” He pulled out the second eye, staring down at the bloody pair. “This is my design.”

He set to the brother, and he sat with four eyeballs, bloody and warm, in his hands. With another prayer, he gathered their blood in his palms, striking it in a crucifix on their chests.

Will opened his eyes.

Crawford lingered in the corner, cautiously approaching the scene with a questioning air. Graham took a deep breath and looked skywards. Dots of sunlight pierced through the broken roof.

“He’s going to kill again,” he said.

“Then we have to stop him before that happens,” muttered Crawford. “How soon, do you think?”

Will glanced down at the bloodied siblings. “Soon,” he said. “But not before he asks for God’s forgiveness.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“We need to find an active church service in this area,” said Will. “I have a feeling he’ll kill another kid. _Holier,_ this time.”

Jack shook his head in disbelief. “There’s more than twenty churches in Laurel. And so close to Christmas?” They made their way outside. “You’re looking at hundreds of services, Will.”

“This killer believes he’s working for God,” he said. “Believes he’s… preserving innocence.” He glanced at Jack. “He’s offended by sin. Running away isn’t an option for him.”

Jack sighed into the air, breath clouding. “We’ll search all the churches around the area.” He nodded at Will. “Thanks, man.”

They shook hands, and Will merely nodded. “Tell me when you find a lead.”

Will headed towards his car, Jack the opposite way, when his voice called into the air.

“Actually—”

Will stopped in his tracks, feet crunching in the snow, and looked over his shoulder. He faced the approaching Crawford.

“I’d like you to meet someone,” he continued. Will tilted his head, and Jack motioned northeast. “Back at the academy.”

Will crossed his arms. “Does it matter that much?” he said. “You know I don’t like talking to people.”

Jack gave an open-ended smile and turned away, back to the car, in a silent invitation to follow. He looked over his shoulder and shouted once more.

“His name’s Hannibal Lecter.”

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone so much for reading, and for leaving such amazing comments! I truly mean it when I say they make my day; y'all are just too sweet to me :,)
> 
> If you'd like to listen to the Spotify playlist for this, here's the [link](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6fsbi0slfvTWy3EjmjXtEt?si=LfQYp3qXTGS056iQOlk-7g) :)
> 
> Have a wonderful day, and stay safe out there! <3  
> -Ambrose


	5. 5

Will dared to deny it.

The man sitting in Jack’s office emanated a dark, thick air —one that bled with power. As he and Crawford entered, the man looked back, standing and smiling in greeting.

“You must be Will Graham,” he said, voice smooth and persuasive. He shook Will’s hand.

“And you’re—”

“Hannibal Lecter,” Jack said, nodding his head. “He’s been helping us for fifteen years, now.”

Will inhaled, the air of power flooding his lungs. It was so similar to Death’s atmosphere. “Nice to meet you,” he breathed, shaken by the resemblance.

“I’ve heard great things about you,” said Lecter with a leering smile. He glanced at Jack. “Shall we sit?”

Crawford nodded, and they sat down (Jack behind his desk with Will and Hannibal before him). Lecter crossed his legs, settling his arms in his lap. Will couldn’t help but grow weary of his presence, and his skin tingled at the mere sound of his voice.

“I might have the slightest notion,” said Hannibal leaning forward, “as to who committed your recent crime. A friend of mine, most likely.”

Crawford sat up straight. “Already?”

“Victorum Pikes. One of the most religious men I’ve ever met.” There was a manic glint in his eye. “Learning all of these rituals to make a mocking of God.”

“So he’s not a true believer,” asked Jack. 

“There are many answers as to what a true believer is or is not,” Hannibal drawled. “All thoughts of religion, to humans, happen to be a matter of personal preference.”

Will sat up. “We’re not here to debate on what we think of religion,” he muttered, avoiding their gazes. “This murderer— _ whoever he is _ —killed two children right beneath our noses.” He wearily glanced at Lecter, heart thrumming at the sight of him.  _ How was his air so similar to Death’s? _

He pushed the thought aside. “I think talking about catching this man is more important than the topic of  _ God,”  _ finished Will.

Lecter smiled, staring fixedly at Graham. His examining eyes burned through Will’s skin.

“Your eyes seem to roam the recesses of this room,” he observed. “Not fond of eye contact, are you?”

Will stared for a moment, raptured by his attention. “Eyes are…  _ distracting,”  _ he said, glancing at Lecter. “You see too much, you see too  _ little _ …” Hannibal’s gaze burned through him, igniting a chord within him that pushed him to keep talking—to keep Lecter’s attention on him.

“It’s difficult to concentrate when you think”—he shifted in his seat—“‘Hm… the white of his eyes are too bright,’ or, ‘could that be an illness?”— _ or even _ —” He dared to glance into Lecter’s eyes. “‘Is that a fleck of…  _ maroon _ in his eyes?’”

Hannibal tilted his head with an amused smile, and Will glanced away. “So you see,” Graham said, collecting himself. “I try to avoid eye contact as much as possible.” He managed a smile, and Lecter returned the gesture with searching eyes. “As for the case—”

“I imagine what you are seeing and what you learn,” said Hannibal, “are the conditions your mind and integrity take into account.” Will glanced at him, startled by the interruption. On the sidelines, Jack smirked quietly.

“Although affected from your associations,” continued Lecter, “you are afraid of your dreams. In the arena made of the bones in your skull, you’ve made a fort for the things of which you love.”

Will stared, speechless, and Crawford cleared his throat.

“I forgot to mention,” said Jack, amused. “He’s also a psychiatrist.” 

“You just…” Will glanced between the two. “He just psychoanalyzed me.”

“My apologies, Will,” mused Hannibal. “All we ever do is observe. I cannot help myself.” His eyes darkened, examining Graham’s frame. “I have a notion that you are the same…”

Will shivered, something foreboding about his words. Could he tell that Will was secretly…? As he brushed off the apology, he glanced once more at Lecter’s frame.

No. The idea was preposterous. 

Will was a good fisherman, after all. He knew when to use the lures and go for the kill, but he also knew when to pull back. To mask his true intentions.

“I’ve actually got things to do,” said Will, standing. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Lecter.”

“Leaving so soon?”

“Yeah, Will,” chimed Jack. “We should discuss the case.”

Will, already halfway out the door, looked over his shoulder. His eyes lingered on Hannibal more than what was considered friendly. After a pause, he sighed out, “Call me if you need me.”

  
  


His fingers itched with impatience.

Will watched from the distance, hungry eyes peering from the trees. This was one of his least popular methods: luring Death in by the fate of planned accident. He’d only done it twice in the past: once by poisoning food, and the other by pushing off a cliff, but today happened to be by a rather vicious river.

Night poised the sky, streaking the snow with midnight hues. Ahead, ice spit and crackled in the river, hissing at its visitor.

A young girl, by the name of Sonya Glazir, always sat by the river around this time. For what reason, Will had no idea, but he’d always been itching to try his other methods again. Now seemed to be the perfect time—when the FBI were focused on the Schiros and the children.

Will’s fingers ghosted over the switchblade in his pocket. If things went wrong, he’d fix them with his own hands. 

When Sonya stood, he stepped from the trees. His breaths clouded in the air, feet purposefully crunching in the snow. Glazir whirled around. Her body tensed.

Slowly, Will slid the knife from his pocket, flicking it open with a satisfied click. He approached her, lithe and graceful like a panther, reveling in Sonya’s racked breaths.

“W-who are y-ou?” she whimpered, stepping back.  _ Good. Let fear be your demise. _

He said nothing, testing the weight of the knife in his hand. Sonya’s eyes darted from his knife to his face. 

The river roared.

“P-please go a-away,” cried Sonya, slipping on some ice. She gasped and looked back, body trembling.

Step back and die.

“You shouldn’t be out here all alone,” said Will, twisting the knife in his hand. He could smell Glazir now—a faint whiff of lavender. An adolescent’s scent. “Especially out in the cold.”

Tears welled in her eyes, now, as her body froze in place like ice. But, just like the ice below, it would break and drown in the rushing river.

“D-don’t hurt me,” shuddered Sonya, trembling hands raising in defense. “I-I’m sorry if this i-is your p-property—”

They were only feet away from each other. Sonya sobbed, shuffling back, eyes darting from Will to the knife. “P-please… don’t…”

Graham smiled, adrenaline bleeding through his veins like sweet honey. He took a step closer. Sonya leaned back. 

He swung the knife, and she screamed. Miss. Just what he wanted.

Sonya slipped on the ice and tumbled down the jagged banks, screaming with terror. Blood sprayed on the rocks. Her body cracked into the river. Furious streams of water pulled Sonya into its depths, pummeling her with ice and cold.

Will stepped back, peering into the river, and watched her body flow down the river. His breaths came in soft pants, and his hands trembled in the slightest, like they always did after escapades like these.

As her body ebbed out of sight, he ran downstream. There was a likely chance she survived, but the freezing water—mixed with deafening ice and rock—would finish the job. It was the one who dealt the final blow he wanted to see.

Would Death visit?

He panted, cold air rushing through his lungs.

Was he good enough this time?

  
  


Will Graham was panting by the time he reached Sonya’s washed-up body. Bruises glowed from her skin, and blood welled into the rocks. But she was—

He gasped, cupping his mouth and slipping into the trees. 

_ Be quiet. _

A figure stooped over Sonya’s body.

Mixed with the darkness and the absence of his glasses, Will could barely make it out. But from Sonya’s pale, milky skin, he could see—

His eyes widened.

The figure caressed Sonya’s face, and black—like ink—flowed from their touch. 

Oh my God.

Oh my—

Will slipped through the trees, eyes on the figure. The snow crunched, and—

_ Shit. _

The figure’s head snapped up, searching the river. Will hid behind a tree, cupping his mouth, cursing the snow. Silence bled through his thrumming veins.

He looked at the river, expectant, but was disappointed to only find Sonya’s body.

The figure—no…  _ Death…  _ Death  _ himself…  _ was gone.

Will took a deep, quivering breath, smiling to himself. Could it be true? Had he finally,  _ truly  _ shown?

He glanced back at the body, his veins thrumming with twisted delight. Right on Sonya’s cheek, where those fingers had been, lingered the same black, ink-like stain similar to the handprint of Michael Hanson.

_ Yes,  _ Will thought with an elated sigh.

Death had shown himself.


	6. 6

The thought of Christmas both delighted and sickened Will.

He had no family —his mother died when he was young; he killed his father as a teen—but his stray dogs kept him some semblance of company, filling the silence with rustling and barking.

Tonight, it was lonely in the Graham household—dark and cold. Every single holiday, it seemed a shade more sombre, like a filter draping itself over for the occasions. He didn’t mind, though. Despite the loneliness he felt, holidays meant milling people. Milling people—buzzed and distracted—meant endless possibilities of murder. Murder meant Death’s hopeful arrival.

Will shoved on his jacket, glancing down at his phone once more. Jack Crawford had called, asking for assistance with the recent murder. A possible lead.

It looked like he wouldn’t be lonely tonight.

Will bid his dogs farewell, huffing out into the cold as he headed to his car and got ready. In roughly thirty minutes, he arrived in Laurel, Maryland, in the parking lot of Lifehouse Church. Lights gleamed from the old building, and singing bled from the walls.

As Will slipped out of the car, Jack Crawford came into view, approaching him with a newly-familiar face by his side.

“Jack,” greeted Will, nodding at them both. “Mr. Lecter.”

They nodded in return, gazes turning toward the church.

“Sure this is place?” said Will. “Seems ordinary just like the others.”

Hannibal lead the way, and they slipped through the heavy doors, washed over with warmth. Singing swelled in the air, and lights twinkled about. Church members filled the pews and lined the walls, holding books with heads bowed or hands lifted in praise.

“Jack and I were discussing the probabilities of Pikes being here,” whispered Hannibal, in the middle of Will and Crawford. “I’ve known him for years—he will be here.”

Will gazed at the members, all singing with glee. “He wants a child from his home church,” muttered Will, “to be his final kill.”

The ghost of a smirk lingered on Hannibal’s lips. “His final kill, you say,” he breathed. “Interesting.”

Will thought nothing of his statement, searching the people. What if he chose his own catch here, too?

_ No.  _ He quickly silenced the thought, gazing at every face. All innocent, all praising, all but—

“There,” whispered Will, leaning close so the others could hear. Jack and Hannibal followed his gaze. “Is that him, Mr. Lecter?”

The man vaguely reminded Will of how Death might look. Slicked-back raven hair, sharp features with gleaming grey eyes, and an all-black suit. His sly eyes glanced over the church, lingering on any children like a predator to its prey.

By his shoulder, Hannibal nodded. “Yes.”

Will took a deep breath, the faint air of Hannibal’s scent lingering in his nose. Still, just like when they first met, wafted that air thick with power. So much like Death.

Jack tore him from his thoughts. “It’s unceremonious,” proposed Crawford, “but we could catch him now. Before he finds a kid.”

“And interrupt the entire service?” said Will. The singing swelled around them, and the candles seemed to glow brighter.

“Would you rather angered Christians glare upon you,” said Hannibal, “or an innocent child to die in the hands of a murderer?”

“Both sound quite bad,” Will muttered, but his amused air was quickly shot down with glares. He scoffed. “It was just a joke.”

He turned to Hannibal. “Mr. Lecter,” he said. “Victorum Pikes is your friend. What if you tried luring him out of here?”

Hannibal shook his head. “I know him. Pikes will not leave a service—not until the final words.”

Jack huffed. “Well, we can’t just wait here. We have to be a step ahead of him.”

Hannibal shared an amused smirk at that—one that only he could understand. Will ignored it, glancing around until his eyes landed on the walls. A few sconces—flickering with candlelight—reflected in his eyes.

“We could start a fire,” he said. “Innocent, but… enough to cause a bit of chaos.”

“No glares, no caustic words,” muttered Hannibal with a smirk. He glanced down at Will, amused to find his eyes elsewhere. “It seems like a good plan. Risqué, yes, but it should work.”

“We can’t just infringe public property,” reasoned Jack. “We can get sued.”

“Not if they don’t know,” Will said. “And, also—I think it’s a  _ wonderful _ time to point out—a child is about to be  _ murdered  _ and we’re worried about a few little Christians.”

Hannibal smirked, glancing at Jack, and moved into action before any protests came. Gracefully—Will observed—with the smoothest gait, Hannibal glanced through the people, edging close to the walls. The sconces were only a few feet above his head, flickering with heat, and with a stop, Hannibal glanced around.

_ Clear. _

He rose his arms as if in praise, closed his eyes, and hit the sconce. Perfectly, planned, expected—its rusted handle fell from the wall and clattered to the floor. A few people shouted and shied away, but the music was too loud. Members returned to their singing, but it would quickly derail. When the candle had fallen down, it had caught on an old man’s long, draping garbs.

Fire licked up the cloth.

People shouted, pointed it out. The fire grew brighter, and the man panicked. Now, the pews were stirring, members glancing back at the commotion. A few rushed towards the scene, and the singing began to dwindle.

Hannibal glanced at Will and Jack from afar and nodded. Through the commotion, Victorum Pikes selected his prey and stalked from the church.

“Let’s go,” shouted Crawford, and they ran through the church, bursting out into the cold, night air. Ahead, Pikes held a kid’s hand, rushing them into further darkness. Will cocked his gun, and they raced forward.

“I order you to stop  _ right now,  _ Pikes!” yelled Jack, gun pointed. Victorum whirled around and stopped, pale skin shining. His eyes were surprisingly blank. Emotionless.

“Unhand the child,” ordered Crawford, only feet away from him. Will joined his side, gun by his leg. A silence warped the air and muffled the fluttering panic in the church, making the night sky heavy and foreboding—like a dark weight.

“Do it, Mr. Pikes,” said Will.

Victorum stayed still, eyes shifting over to Graham. For a long, stretching minute, his skin burned under such a scrutinizing gaze.  _ Did Hannibal put out the fire, yet? _

Pikes face suddenly lit up with dark amusement, and his eyes pierced into Will’s.

“So you’re the one they talk about,” he said smoothly, voice low and jagged. “The fated Will Graham.” His eyes raked over Will, slowly and purposefully, until the hairs on his neck stood up. “You’re much more handsome in person.”

Will shared a look with Jack before turning back to Pikes, ignoring the words.

“Let go of the kid, Mr. Pikes.”

Victorum gave a cold smile, running a hand over the kid’s hair. “Obsession only gets you so far, you know,” he muttered slowly. “So  _ painfully _ has it blinded you, that when  _ he  _ looks you in the face, you are so unaware. It’s fun watching your demise.” 

He glanced down at the kid, petting his hair. “Poor Peter… Will is so silly, isn’t he? Stares in the face of his lover and looks the other way.  _ We _ aren’t like that, are we?”

Peter shook his head. “No, sir.”

Victorum smiled. “We don’t listen to blind fools,” he hummed. “If we do, we disobey God. If we do what these men  _ say _ , Peter, we will hurt God’s feelings.” He pat Peter’s cheek. “We don’t want that, now do we?”

Crawford stepped forward, gun ready. “Let him  _ go,  _ Pikes,” he said slowly. Victorum smiled, sinking down to his knees to be eye level with Peter.

“Humans are such  _ funny _ little things,” said Victorum, eyes gazing towards the church exit. “In a thirst for power, they inflict pain upon others. They create  _ rules  _ and levels of  _ status.  _ Revel in the scent of their subordinates’ blood.” 

He glanced at Will, gaze calm and cool. “But you already know that… don’t you, Graham?”

A cold sting ran through Will’s veins, and through Victorum’s eyes, he could sense that Pikes knew who he really was. A murderer. 

_ He can see right through me. _

Before Jack could question anything, Hannibal came out of the church, gait professional and regal despite his rushing pace.

“The fire spread a little faster than intended,” he said, brushing himself off. He glanced over Will’s shoulder, huffing. “Victorum.”

“Hannibal,  _ dominus _ ,” he greeted with a bow of his head. A sly smile stretched across his thin lips.  _ “Carissimi mortem.” _

_ “Victamque victricemque,”  _ replied Hannibal. He nodded his head, eyes glimmering. Holding something back. “It’s sad to see you here like this, Victorum. Now listen to these men and let the child go.”

Pikes only smiled and ruffled Peter’s hair, words flowing as if the gun aimed at him were invisible. “God is hard to anger,” he hummed, staring Hannibal in the eye. “He holds children so dear to him, and yet… He still hurts his own creations. Faulty ruler, I think.”

Will watched the interaction, breathing in the tense, binding heat between them. Then, through the cold night air, the atmosphere grew thick. It brewed with power and foreboding.

_ Death.  _ Death was near.

“Your mockings of Him certainly do cause Him ache,” said Hannibal with a hum, the both of them talking about God as if he were a well-known friend. “But He is overly forgiving. I, you, the others—we all know this.”

The air grew sharper, and Will motioned for Jack to lower his gun, looking around. Will’s nostrils burned with the familiar, long-yearned-for scent of Death. He glanced over at Hannibal, and the scent seemed to double in strength.

“Oh, look,” said Victorum. “The Obsessor seems to find ill use to his blindfold.”

“Hands behind your head, Pikes,” said Crawford, raising his gun again. “Hannibal—step away.”

“He’s my friend.”

“And he’s a murderer,” he spat, clutching the gun. Victorum didn’t flinch, face bored. Slowly, he put his hands behind his head, still holding onto Peter’s.

“Murder is a strong word,” Victorum said, glancing over at Will—like he  _ knew _ . He smirked at Graham’s shocked expression, moving his eyes to the sky. “I prefer…  _ sacrifice.” _

“Sacrifice or not,” said Jack, motioning Will for handcuffs, “you’re under arrest for—”

An explosion burst through the church walls. The ground shook. People screamed. Will and Jack whirled towards the building, eyes wide.

Flames engulfed the church, reaching out of the windows and tearing through the sky. A few people stumbled from the doors, panicking as the fire claimed its place.

“What…” said Will.

They whirled back around, ready to cuff Pikes, but he was gone.

Disappeared.

No trace.

Only Hannibal left standing where Victorum once was.

“Did you let him go?” demanded Jack, wildly searching about. “Hannibal, what happened—”

“I… I don’t know,” said Lecter, glancing around. The church surged with heat, forcing them away from the thought of Pikes and reminding them of the countless—possibly burning—church members. Jack fumbled with his belt and clutched a receiver.

“This is Agent Crawford. We need backup on Compton Avenue. Burning building—possible civilians.” He pulled the device from his mouth and glanced at Will and Hannibal, nodding. “We have to help.”

Will glanced back at where Victorum once was, turned back towards the flaring heat, and nodded.

He’d have to think about Pikes later.

  
  


He was distracted at first, but now that the roaring of flames and cries of the people were gone—replaced with the calm quiet of the BAU—Will could smell it.

Hannibal stood next to him, vacantly gazing at the burnt body on the metal table. From his suit, Will picked up a hint of cologne, but also…  _ coldness.  _ The frozen scent of snow, night air, and—dare he say—ice-clad river.

Will closed his eyes and took a deep breath, taking in more of his scent. The rushing of rivers echoed in his ears, pulsing with power. So similar to Death.

When he opened his eyes again, Hannibal was staring. Will blinked, eyes shifting over the room, and he realized everyone else was staring at him.

“What?”

Jack sighed audibly. “We were going over what just  _ happened,”  _ he grumbled, “and how we’d like to borrow your mind again.”

Price stepped in before Jack could grumble any longer. “There were traces of gasoline on the floor,” he said, fetching a few already-taken photos of the crime scene. “Apparently the commotion knocked some candles down, which spread the flames.” He arranged them near the burnt body. “We proposed we’d find out what really happened if we go back down there.”

Will nodded, examining the photos and ignoring Hannibal’s burning gaze bearing down on his neck. “From what I see here, it definitely looks orchestrated.” Will’s lips twitched into a smirk. “It was a planned accident.”

His eyes trailed up to the burnt body, and he stooped over it. Hannibal’s presence neared his side as Will’s gaze landed on the corpse’s shoulder. Death’s scent seemed to flare in his nostrils.

“Their shoulder…” breathed Will, eyes widening. “Jack? I think we might have another  _ ‘Michael Hanson’ _ situation.”

“You mean with the handprint?”

Graham touched the corpse’s shoulder, feeling burnt flesh beneath rubber gloves. Over his shoulder, Hannibal stooped with curiosity.

“It’s burnt, of course,” said Hannibal, “but blacker than the other parts of the body. This is no ordinary marking.”

Will leaned away, glancing over his shoulder into Lecter’s maroon eyes. His presence seemed to pulse for a fleeting moment, and he tore his gaze away. “Jack,” he said, shaking off Hannibal’s continuous gaze. “We should go there now. For all we know, Bram Bates could’ve been behind this, too.”

“Would there really be such an obvious connection?” said Crawford.

Will shrugged his shoulders, feeling the pure-black marking on the body’s shoulder. “It’s a possibility,” he said, his blood already rushing with adrenaline. “But what we do know—is that we’re dealing with much bigger things on our hands.”

“Let me come with you,” offered Hannibal.

Graham glanced at him and nodded. “Whatever—as long as we get there soon.” He nodded towards Jack, and the three of them headed out, leaving Price and Zeller to further investigate the body. “Maybe we can catch Death in the act.”

Hannibal gave an amused smirk— _probably_ _disbelief_ , thought Will—but he ignored it.

Death was nearing closer and closer by the day, and he wouldn’t pass up such a glorious opportunity. After all these years, he would finally do it.

Will Graham would catch Death in his own hands.


	7. 7

“He knew,” breathed Will as he opened his eyes, the visions of the previous fire fluttering from his mind. “Victorum knew that we would come.”

Jack ran a hand over his face in disbelief. Will glanced over his shoulder. Green eyes met maroon.

“You weren’t behind this…” muttered Graham, “were you?”

Hannibal showed indifference. “I identified the murderer. I led him straight to you.” His eyes glimmered. “The fact that he is my friend means nothing. We acted by the hand of justice.”

“Justice can be quite unfair, if you really think about it,” grumbled Will, eyes dark. “Its seemingly _righteous_ hands could be pressing all the right buttons. Playing a _game.”_ As he spoke, he neared Hannibal, ending practically nose-to-nose with him. “Digging under everyone’s _skin.”_

Hannibal’s eyes glinted, nostrils flaring at their close proximity. The air hummed with heat.

“We’re not here to accuse anyone,” stepped in Jack, nudging Will away from Lecter. The binding air dulled in the slightest. “Will, what can you tell us about the crime scene?” His eyes narrowed as Will kept his electrifying, steadfast gaze on Hannibal.  _ “Without  _ accusing Dr. Lecter.”

He tore his gaze away and huffed, shaking the tension from his limbs. “It was planned. More than we expected it to be.” Will turned away from Hannibal, not sparing another glance at him. “A good thing we know —Bram Bates didn’t escape prison.”

“He wasn’t a part of it…” mumbled Crawford.

Will shook his head, pacing the pews and glancing up at the intricate walls and paintings of the church. “No… but we still have Death in the picture. I have a feeling that Victorum—like Bates—knew Death.  _ How,  _ we still have no idea.” He leaned against one of the pews.

“Victorum sat here. Waiting.” He nodded, images flashing through his head. “Assuming he’s buddy-buddy with the church officials, he spent his time distracting them while his  _ accomplice  _ soaked the carpet with gasoline.” Will glared over at Hannibal, and Jack huffed.

“He’s not part of this, Will.”

The statement went ignored, and Will continued. “It was skillfully set. Like pieces on a chess board.” Will paced once more, faintly aware of the other’s gazes. “Skip forward to the explosion of fire. We were outside at the time, Jack—if you remember.” He couldn’t help but narrow his eyes at Hannibal. “While  _ Dr.  _ Lecter happened to be inside. Presumably helping,” he grumbled.

_ “Will…” _

Graham huffed. “Anyway. Victorum’s accomplice was inside. He let the fire spread just a little longer, let it linger in some explosives that were precisely set…” Will motioned to an aisle of destroyed pews, their wooden remains in ashen, blocky pieces. “Then, like a hero, he stamped out the fire. The church officials decided to cancel the service, dismissed the people, and just as they left the building, the explosives set off.”

Will walked down the middle aisle, facing Jack and Hannibal. “This leaves us with two options: one—the accomplice escaped before the explosion—” Will struggled to keep his eyes away from Hannibal. “or two—his body is among the others at the BAU.”

Jack nodded, humming in thought. After a moments silence, he turned to Lecter. “Hannibal, would you have any idea where Victorum went? You know him better than any of us.”

Lecter shook his head. “Over the course of our friendship, he’s always disappeared without a trace,” he said. “Sometimes for a mere day—others for months, even  _ years…  _ I have a feeling this is the same case.”

Jack cursed under his breath. “Just like the Chesapeake Ripper,” he grumbled, anger flaring across his features. “Strikes in for a couple kills and disappears for who knows how long.”

“We need patience,” sighed Will, even though he, himself, was annoyed. “Keep this whole thing in thought, but for now, we have to focus on other cases.”

Crawford cursed once more, and they headed out into the night air, still damp with ash and frost. “Speaking of which,” Jack said when he calmed himself, “we found another body.”

They lingered in the wintry air, snow melting beneath their feet.

“By a river,” Jack continued. The air seemed to churn like an uneasy stomach. “Actually, close to where you live, Will. Just a bit south of Wolftrap.”

Will forced on a stoic mask, but the shift in Hannibal’s air beside him was unmistaken. He kept his gaze towards Crawford, ready for the next words.

“We identified her as Sonya Glazir.”

  
  


It wasn’t uncommon when Will investigated his own murders.

He’d examine the scene, close his eyes and replay the murder he’d committed. Give out every single detail— _ meticulously  _ chosen—that falsely,  _ perfectly  _ lead to another person or a dead end. No one ever met his gaze with suspicion.

But this…  _ this… _

Will swallowed his disbelief down as officers milled about him.

This was an entirely different story.

“Do you think it’s the Chesapeake Ripper?” chimed Jack.

Will startled, breath hitching and eyes blinking as he was torn from his trance. He glanced back at the crime scene, shaking his head. “I-I uh…” He collected himself, ignoring Jack’s weary gaze. “I need some space. To think.”

Crawford lingered for a moment, huffed, then rallied his officers. The rustling of dead leaves and the crunch of snow echoed in the back of his head until, eventually, he stood alone in the forest. Glancing around, sure that he was alone, he heavily sighed.

“What did they do to you…” breathed Will, staring at the sight. Both in awe, wonder, and terror.

Sonya Glazir, the girl that he’d killed by planned accident, was made into a  _ display. _

Her raven hair pooled down her naked, cold-blue body, stark and bright against pale skin. Antlers—sharp and dark—pierced through her frame. Menacing against her mangled, bruised flesh.

Shaking the nerves from his limbs, Will closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath. The world stilled, grew muffled, and the roaring of the river trickled in his ears again.

He opened his eyes.

“I watch from the sidelines,” whispered Will, suddenly obscured by darkness and frosty forest. Across the banks, he saw himself approach Sonya. “I sensed him coming, and so I followed.”

Past-Will swung the knife, and Sonya slipped and fell, body crumpling in the clattering ice below. Her body washed down the river, pale and bright under the moonlight.

“I begin to follow. I can sense her heartbeat.” Will glanced at his other self. “He is no longer in my worries. I assume that he’s finished.”

He raced through the trees, feet light on the snow. The roar of the river pulsed in his ears, Sonya’s body racing in and out of sight. Breaths light and shallow, he kept running. The end of the stream came into view. From afar, Past-Will’s scent fluttered in his nostrils, but he ignored it.

Sonya’s body washed up on the rocky shore, mangled and twisted. Sopping clothes sucking at her skin.

“I approach her,” said Will, breaths shallow. “Without hesitation.”

He stumbled through stepping stones, pebbles clattering in his wake. Catching his breath, he stooped over Sonya’s body, reveling in the mangled nature of everything. Power thrummed through his veins, and slowly, he kneeled down, fingers hovering over a once-innocent face.

“I knew your time would come,” whispered Will, examining every inch of her face. “I knew your tale desired an end.” His fingers brushed across her cheek, black welling to the surface. “I gave you a beautiful one.”

He lingered in the moment’s peace.

_ Crunch. _

His head snapped up, searching the trees.

“I hear the noise,” breathed Will. “And now that I’m aware, I can smell his scent. I leave without a trace before he can see me again.”

Will closed his eyes once more, and a different night fell upon his brow. The same rocky shore felt cool beneath his feet.

“Sonya’s body is still here,” he mumbled, stretching on rubber gloves. With grace and poise, he hoisted her up, the deadweight like a feather to him. Carefully, he treaded up the banks, wandering into the forest.

“I look for the perfect place to set her. I will make beautiful what he carelessly threw away.”

He stopped at a line of boulders in one of the forest clearings.

“I already have the image I desire,” muttered Will, setting down Sonya’s body and gazing at the menacing set of antlers prepared. “I set to work. Cautiously and carefully. With the intent of glorifying the lost.”

He moved as the killer once moved, and within minutes, he was finished. The antlers jutting from the boulder; Sonya’s body mounted perfectly on them. Now, it was time for the final touch.

“I have a message for her murderer,” said Will, removing his gloves and tucking them aside. “He will know me. He  _ already  _ knows me.”

He stepped forward, power thrumming through his veins once more. “But I will let him see my true light, just as I will reveal his.”

Will dragged his hand across Sonya’s ribs, black staining her skin. He let the motions flow through him—a hand down the stomach; a hand across the hips—until finally, it shone with one single letter.

_ I. _

“Only I know the full message,” breathed Will. “Only I know how much this will make him ache.”

He stepped back, examining his work. 

“He will finally know me.”

Will opened his eyes, and sunlight stabbed his eyes. He winced, shielding his gaze as he stared at Sonya’s mauled, displayed body. There it still was—not paint or carving—but pitch black marking. Just like death.

All in the shape of the simple letter  _ ‘I.’ _

_ I… _ I  _ what?  _ I have power? I’m better than you?

Will ran his hands over his face, and the rustling of leaves informed him of Jack’s return.

“Well?” came his voice.

He harshly sighed. “It can’t be him,” said Will, shaking his head. There were too many holes, even in his own reconstruction of the scene. “The Chesapeake Ripper puts his victims on display,  _ yes,  _ but he always takes a trophy with him.”

“What about all those bruises? She certainly put up a fight.”

“No, she didn’t do anything,” muttered Will. “She slipped into the river and died before she was washed ashore.”

“Are you sure the killer didn’t push her?”

Will ran a hand over his face again. “Yes, Jack,” he stressed, tearing his gaze from the mauled body. “This  _ person _ took a death into his own hands. Created something…  _ beautiful  _ out of something so wrong.”

Crawford huffed, gazing at the body. “Any idea who did it?”

Both their eyes lingered on the black markings on Sonya’s skin. It was obvious that this was no copycat.

“I know you don’t like farfetched answers, Jack…”

Crawford glanced at him smoothly, shoulders drawn taught. Will ignored his weary gaze.

“But Death is having his own fun, now.” He stared intently, gaze burning, eyes striking into Jack’s. “And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  
  


Will stared angrily into the calm waters, hands clenching the fishing pole. Every so often, his line would bob, whispering of a catch, but his agitated motions kept him out from sunrise to sunset. Taunting his racing head.

All his life, Will had wanted to see Death. Be welcomed by his possessive and powerful air. And, now that he had the chance, it was in risk of his own secret persona.

A murderer. A serial killer. Working under the FBI with the pleasurable high of murders at every corner.

Death was so  _ close.  _ Just under his fingertips _ ,  _ and yet,  _ still…  _ Still, no matter how hard he tried, or looked, or planned, Death always slipped from his grasp like sand. Always left with a taunting leer or disappeared in a cloud of smoke and empty promise.

First, it was Michael Hanson. Then, one of the church bodies. And now… 

Will’s brows furrowed.

Was Death targeting  _ his _ murders, now? With every case he came into contact with—was he purposely making himself a part of it?

He threw the pole to the ground, burying his face in his hands.

Did Death know of him? Was he playing a  _ game? _

He grimaced at the sour taste in his mouth. He  _ would  _ find Death. After all this time, he couldn’t just give up. Even if it meant revealing himself to the world.

“God, I need help,” sighed Will, falling back in the grass and staring up at the husky sky. A distant thought floated about his mind, and he let it form. With the wet snow beneath his back, and the gentle trickle of ice water, he let his eyelids droop. But before peace settled in his blood, the thought came to life.

_ Maybe I need therapy. _

He blinked, both confused and surprised, but mostly unnerved at the image swirling about his mind.

All he could think of was Hannibal Lecter.


	8. 8

Will would have examined the office in grander awe, but the unsettling doubt in his stomach prevented him from doing so. Everything suddenly seemed too perfect.

“Will,” greeted Hannibal with a small smile. “Welcome.”

“Yeah, hi,” he said pathetically. He gazed around the room —up the stretching curtains and across the balcony with its bookshelves—and hesitantly turned his gaze to the immaculately-dressed Hannibal. But, despite the anxiety churning in his stomach, he could still smell it.

Always lingering about Dr. Lecter was that similar air to Death’s. Thick and foreboding—bleeding through the air with power. Twisted with professional, poised glee.

Hannibal’s low words snapped him out of his trance. “So, what brings you to my office today?”

“I’m sure Jack already told you,” mumbled Will, continuing to examine the room. Hannibal leaned against his desk, hands in pockets and eyes examining each and every one of Graham’s motions. The gaze burned against his skin.

“I’d like to hear it from you.”

He shakily sighed and ran a hand over his face. “The recent murders have been…  _ catching up  _ to me.” Will glanced back at Lecter. “I think that explains enough.”

Hannibal smiled with a faint tilt of his head that irked Will’s insides. “I appreciate your wit, Will,” he mused, “but I feel that, to derive the most benefit from our time together, you are to be open and—preferably—not to be so hostile with me. Does that sound simple enough for you?”

Will huffed, taking further inspection of the office. “Sure.”

“Very well,” said Hannibal smoothly. “Please, take a seat.” As they both did—across from each other—Lecter went on to say, “I always stress the idea of comfort with my patients. If you ever wish to roam the recesses of this room, feel free. Only for the moment do I request some stillness.”

Graham nodded, feeling the smooth texture of the seat.

“I’d like to start off with something simple,” said Hannibal, catching Graham’s attention. “Tell me about your mother.”

“That’s some  _ lazy  _ psychiatry, Dr. Lecter,” blurted Will, startled by the question. Hannibal merely tilted his head. “A low-hanging fruit.”

“I suspect that fruit is on a high branch. Very difficult to reach.”

“So is my mother,” grumbled Will. “Barely knew her.”

“Interesting place to start.”

Will took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “Tell me about  _ your  _ mother, let’s start there.”

Hannibal paused, and when he spoke, his words flowed with smooth evenness. “Both my parents always kept their distance from me,” he said. “The only times I spent time with them were when my father took me hunting, or when my mother taught me how to cook.” He stared cooly at Will. “Neglect does many things to people. It wounds children. Numbs families.”

Will let a brief pause rest between them, breathing in the rich, power-laden atmosphere of the room. The reminder of Death soothed him in the slightest.

“There’s something so foreign about family,” breathed Will. “Like an…  _ ill-fitting  _ suit. I never connected to the concept.”

“You’ve created a family for yourself.”

Will mulled over the words for a moment, brows furrowing. “Well, I made a family of  _ strays.  _ They keep me company, but—” He leaned forward. “How do you know I have dogs?”

Hannibal smiled, brushing off Will’s suspicion. “Your little canine family isn’t unfamiliar at the BAU. Jack told me of your love for strays.” He tilted his head towards Graham’s leg. “You also have various dog hairs on your pant legs. Common signs of a dog owner.”

Will leaned back, gazing off to the side. Hannibal’s gaze tingled on his skin. “Speaking of dogs,” he said, “one of mine—Buster—recently passed away.”

He glanced back at Hannibal, catching a glint in his eye. But within a blink, it was gone, leaving him thinking he just imagined it. 

“He was a healthy dog,” continued Will. “I’m also cautious of what I feed them, so he couldn’t have been poisoned. No…”

Will sat up in his seat, eyes lighting up. “Tell me, Dr. Lecter. What do you think of the tales behind Death? The countless  _ stories  _ about him?”

Hannibal paused for a moment, eyes glinted and smile widened. “I’d love to answer your question, Will, but first I’d like to ask the reason behind such an inquiry. What led you to ask me that today?”

Will forced down a smile, concealing his passion on the subject.  _ Show too much enthusiasm,  _ he reminded himself,  _ and you might just get caught. _

“I’ve always been fascinated with the concept,” said Will, choosing and neglecting certain reasons and descriptions of his infatuation with Death. “Fancied it, even as a kid. I mean, just the  _ thought  _ of some gracious being behind the act…” His eyes lit up. “It’s entirely captivating.”

Hannibal let Will’s words bleed through the air for a moment’s silence. “What ignited this passion of yours?”

Graham paused, thought over a plausible response. “The mystery behind it all,” he elected to answer simply. “How the concept…  _ draws  _ to you.” 

“I’ve noticed that your recent cases have drawn the hand of Death. Tell me, what do you think of that? How does it make you feel?”

Will leaned back in his seat. “It’s one of the reasons I came here. I’m not… bothered by it, but I am quite suspicious. After all these years, is he finally ready to show himself?” He fought back a smile. “Other than the suspicion, I’m elated. I’ve always wanted to meet Death.”

“So you believe the tales—that Death indeed takes mortal form?”

“Mortality… I have a feeling the concept doesn’t mingle with Death. I’m sure he’s able to deter all forms of… pain or emotion.” Will paused. “But, yes, I believe he walks among us. Even more than before, with all the evidence from the cases.” 

He gazed at Hannibal, examining his features. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Death is indeed real,” whispered Hannibal. “Walking silently through people, gracing them with his touch. Deciding or enforcing the ends of lives. Tell me, Will, have you ever considered the task of Undertaking to be passed down generations?”

“I don’t think I understand,” said Will, stunned by his confident, chilling words.

“Do you think Death could have offspring? Pass down his gift to his children?”

Will blinked, the thought absolutely foreign to him. “I always assumed a process similar to reincarnation. Or a mortal form that couldn’t age.”

“You’d be surprised by how many variations of the story there are,” mused Hannibal. “Needless to say… which one is the true form?”

A comfortable silence fell between them, and Hannibal took the time to examine Will’s physique. “I wonder, Will—have you any insight on the Four Horsemen?”

“Of course,” said Will. “Famine, War, Conquest —”

“And Pestilence,” finished Hannibal. “The tale that  _ I _ believe describes Death as the leader of these horsemen.” His eyes glimmered. “Have you ever thought that they, too, might possess a mortal form?”

Will blinked, head spinning at all these possibilities. “Anything’s possible.”

“And possible, it is,” said Hannibal with a knowing smile, tilting his head at Will. He crossed his legs. “Let’s get back to the reason you came to see me today. Death has been following your cases—tainting the crime scenes.”

“Or making his own.”

Hannibal smiled at that, knowing exactly what he meant. Michael Hanson, who died—peacefully—by the soothing hand of Death.

“He left a message,” said Will. “On our recent case. Sonya Glazir.”

Hannibal’s eyes glimmered. “What did it say?”

“It was just the letter ‘I,’” muttered Will, brows furrowing. “My question is: was it really a message? Death possibly couldn’t think of even…  _ speaking  _ to me.”

Hannibal smiled wide. “You’d be surprised, Will. After all, Death works in many ways.”

“But what is that even supposed to mean? If it wasn’t just an accidental touch, than that letter has to symbolize _ something.” _

“Perhaps Death intends to continue the message. Keep you at the edge of your seat.” Hannibal tilted his head, eyes alight. “Curiosity bleeds in all blood, after all. You know what I think, Will?”

Will looked up, eyes searching.

“I think Death wants to test you.”

  
  


_ Death… wanting to test him? _

Will stared out over the lake, mind simply milling about. Sunset bled over the horizon, softly warming the melted snow over brittle grass. In the lake, fish stirred, impatient with the corroding ice. He watched the view lazily, slowly turning his head back when the crunch of snow-grass sounded through the trees.

“I thought I’d find you here,” said Crawford, voice soft. He sat down on the stones, sighing as he joined the sight-seeing. After a moment of silence, he spoke up. “How was therapy with Dr. Lecter?”

Will shrugged. “I don’t find him that interesting.”

“He’s a good therapist.”

Will lazily stared at the trickling river, mind slugging through thoughts. “Jack,” he said, earning a hum. “Do you think Death would converse with mortals?”

Crawford stared for a moment, and his brows furrowed in thought. “No, I don’t think so,” he muttered. “Millions of people die a day. He’d never have time for talk.”

Will nodded.

“But,” chimed Jack, “there are many things in this world we can’t even think to comprehend.”

That only unsettled Will further. He snapped from his trance when Jack firmly pat his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he bid, standing. “Get some sleep.”

“I try,” said Will, watching Crawford leave. He turned back to the calm, semi-frozen waters, relishing in the view.

He wouldn’t be sleeping very well. Not with all these new questions about Death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made an Instagram if you'd like to follow it! Tag is @RyeAmbrose  
> I post book covers and updates on my writing :)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and have a wonderful day!  
> -Ambrose


	9. 9

The first time Will laid eyes on the mark of Death was only a few years before he joined the FBI—when he killed more often.

Stars had hid beneath the midnight sky, and pale streetlamps flickered over abandoned streets. Will walked down the sidewalk in silence, eyes watching and ears listening in to any movement. He searched for his newest prey.

Until a gunshot rang out.

Will whirled around, searching for the source. Scuffling sounded nearby. He ran towards the sound. An alleyway. Dark.

He slipped out his knife and creeped down the alleyway. More scuffling. Then silence.

Will held his breath and peered around the corner, eyes widening. A man kneeled beside a dead body, hand ghosting over it. When Will took another step forward, his head snapped up.

_ Shit. _

“Hey —!”

The man vanished. Will ran towards the body, looking around, brows furrowed in confusion.  _ What? But he was just _ —

He gave one last sweep of his surroundings before kneeling beside the body, knife still in hand. A gunshot wound blossomed on the body’s chest, wet and deep. What stood out to Will, though, was the stark, black handprint—like a loving embrace; a mother’s caress—on their face.

“What the hell…” he breathed.

Will ghosted his hand over the marking, mind numb. Silence bled through his ears until a striking, fiery realization pummeled his chest.

_ Death. _

He sniffed the air, picking up on the lingering musk of power and foreboding.

_ This was Death’s marking. _

And Will thought the same words as he stared down at their most recent crime—another murder that he himself had done only a week ago. Body reeking of putrescine, skin a reddish, swelled tone, and insects crawling over it, a James Grand stared up at the sky with glazed eyes. Despite the mauled, rotting flesh before him, Will’s eyes couldn’t help but stare at the fresh, ink-black marking across the cadaver’s chest. Another letter, another message.

This time, the letter  _ A. _

_ I, A… I, A…  _ rang in Will’s head. Could it be a code?

Beverly sidled into his view, stooping over the body. “He was dug out of a grave,” she said, waving a hand about James. “Dragged down here for at least a couple miles. We’re looking for someone in Baltimore.”

Will shook his head. “No, the killer doesn’t live here,” he muttered, eyes transfixed on the letter. “This man dug up this body just to make a statement.”

“And what’s that?” asked Crawford as he joined the conversation. Will shook his head. 

“I don’t know yet.”

Jack sighed, shaking his head. “Get that body out of here before it stinks up the whole place. I want more information on it when we get back to the lab.”

Beverly nodded and headed off. Jack turned to Will and lowered his voice, eyeing him. 

“Whoever’s doing this,” he said, “wants to send a message to one of us.” He rose his brows. “And it better not be you—seeing how that went last time.”

Will scoffed, pushing down old memories of when he first joined the FBI. “Trust me,” he breathed. “Even if it were for me, I won’t get emotionally involved.”

“I’m only hoping Dr. Lecter would help with that,” he said, and Will rolled his eyes. Then, once the body and evidence were ready, they went straight to the BAU for further information.

  
  


“He was killed by blunt force trauma,” said Price, motioning to the body’s head. “Bruises, right here.”

“What I don’t get is why the killer would bury the body just to dig it out again,” muttered Zeller, glancing at Graham and Crawford. “Seems a bit useless, if you ask me.”

Will cleared his throat, catching their attention. “This wasn’t the same guy,” he muttered. “Our original killer murdered James and buried him with the full intent of having him rot away. Not to dig him out and have him discovered.” He glanced at the others, serious and sombre. “This was Death’s doing.”

Price and Zeller rose their brows, exchanging glances of ridicule and disbelief. Jack stepped in before they could question it. “That’s what we’re calling this…  _ vandalist,”  _ he said, glancing back at Graham. “Obviously, this is a signature—the killer’s—”

“Trying to say something,” finished Price. His brows furrowed, and he shook his head. “Why would a killer want to communicate with us?”

A silence fell over them, and Will deeply exhaled, looking down at the body he had murdered. “The only way we can find out,” he whispered, “is to wait for more bodies to drop.”

And the fact made him afraid.

  
  


If Death kept messing with his murders—digging them up, or putting them on display, or marking them freely—Will was sure he’d get caught. Eventually, he couldn’t keep making excuses. Couldn’t keep veering the FBI into the direction of another killer. And all these thoughts raced through his mind as he paced around Hannibal’s office, unable to spill any of his worries.

“Something’s on your mind,” said Hannibal, tilting his head at Will from his chair. “What is it?”

“Human minds are always occupied with things, Dr. Lecter,” he muttered, leaning against the desk now. “Worries, doubts, happiness or sadness… sometimes they’re harboring the  _ darkest _ , most vilifying secrets that…” He rose his brows. “If they’re told, Death may as well come upon them.”

“These secrets that you speak of,” said Hannibal. “They destroy the mind if they are withheld. They corrode it—consume the conscious as if it were a deadly parasite.” 

Will narrowed his eyes, slowly pacing around the room again. “Even so,” he muttered, glancing at the walls of the room, “some secrets can’t be handled.”

A smirk flashed across Hannibal’s lips. “That’s very true.”

Will seated himself across from Hannibal, staring at him fixedly. “Tell me, Dr. Lecter,” he said. “Do you have a deep, dark secret?”

Hannibal tilted his head and smirked. “Everyone does,” he said. “That’s no question.”

“But do  _ you?” _

Hannibal’s eyes glinted, and a pause fell over them. He stared straight back at Will. “I do.” He let the silence continue for a few more moments, reveled in the tense, power-hungry air, and continued their conversation without further explanation. “All this talk of secrets, and you still haven’t told me yours,” he said slowly. “You can trust me with anything, after all, Will.”

Graham searched his face, impossible to read. “What’s your role as a therapist, Dr. Lecter?” he asked, scrutinizing him. “If a patient tells you something so deadly—so morbid or morose—would you give away their words in fear? Would you, even, call the authorities?” Will leaned forward, lost in twinkling, mysterious eyes. “What if I’m a threat to you? Or even—other people?”

Hannibal’s eyes glittered in knowing, but he sat back, legs crossed and expression amused. Will stared at him, taking in every movement or pause carefully. “I honor the rule of doctor-patient confidentiality greatly, Will,” he said evenly. “No iniquitous remarks or depraved fantasies shall ever leave this room, nor will they ever linger in it. Only when I find benefit to another patient with such utterances do I cross that line.”

Another silence bled over them, and Will inhaled, catching the faint, familiar scent of Death that Hannibal so oddly possessed. It gave him a strike of numbing confidence.

Hannibal noticed the change in his demeanour.

“Tell me, Will,” he whispered, black eyes glittering. “What is this dark, detrimental secret that you possess?”

Will stared at him cooly, breaths even and heart steadily pounding in his ears as he stared at Hannibal. He leaned forward, reveling in the scent of Death, basking in the powerful, foreboding air, and said simply.

“I’m a killer.”


	10. 10

“The boy’s persistence will chase my immortality to the ends of the earth, Azmaveth,” the god, Mortifico, drawled, gazing down at the earth. “Despite his revelations, he still continues to kill for me.”

He sighed, catching his son’s attention —a young boy reaching his early adulthood. He approached his father slowly.

“Is it Will Graham, Father?” 

“My only admirer,” he said.

Azmaveth blinked. “You brought his mother to peace.”

Mortifico nodded with another sigh. “And he’s been killing for us ever since. Let run the blood of his own kin.”

“His own father.”

A silence fell over them, and the two gods stared out over the clouds, lingering in the air’s cool, gentle embrace. After a while, Azmaveth spoke up.

“Let me talk to him,” he said.

“What?”

Azmaveth glanced over at his father, black eyes glinting. “I want to know this Will Graham. Understand his every movement —the reasons behind them .” He leaned closer to Mortifico, midnight wings fluttering. “I want to know why he’s so infatuated with our legacy. Memorize the itch beneath his skin that drives his mortal brain to kill in cold blood.”

Mortifico stared down at his son, pride glimmering in his eyes. “Your talk promises dangerous roads, son.”

“What good am I up here?” he breathed. “Allow me to extend our legacy. Make Death known for what we truly are.”

Another silence fell over them, and Mortifico gazed at Azmaveth, examining his features —the fire of his eyes; the strength of his silent, deadly build. A true, sly embodiment of Death itself.

“You must build a reputation,” said Mortifico, “down in the mortal realm.”

Azmaveth straightened himself, listening to his father’s every words.

“Humans have built their system on power. If your speak stands concrete, you must push your way through the ranks. Gain respect. Analyze every movement that those mortals make and learn their ways.” Mortifico gave a slender, chilling smile. “But most importantly, you must harbor the trust of Will Graham.”

“Yes, Father. I will do exactly as you say.”

Mortifico nodded, staring back down at the earth. Azmaveth followed his gaze.

“You will not journey alone. Your four horsemen will accompany you.” He glanced over at his son. “Let them carve their own paths. It is only when you truly see fit that they plot by your side.”

Azmaveth nodded.

“Do not forget your duties,” said Mortifico. Another pause fell between them, and he pat his son’s head with chilling fingers. 

“Make me proud, Hannibal.”

  
  


Tension swam between Hannibal and Will as they stared at one another, silent after Will’s confession. Despite the uncomfort brewing in the air, the ghost of a smirk flashed across Lecter’s lips. Will Graham wavered.

“You’re awfully fine about this,” muttered Graham, eyeing him closely. “I just admitted I’m a killer, Dr. Lecter. A  _ murderer _ .”

“My reaction gives you pause, does it not?”

Will scoffed. “Obviously.”

Another tense, charged silence fell between them, and Will shifted in his seat. He kept his eyes on Hannibal, perking up when he opened his mouth.

“I knew,” he said quietly.

Will blinked, staring at Hannibal. “What?”

He smiled and stood, wandering over to the cabinet to fetch a bottle of wine. Slowly, while letting the silence cut through them unpleasantly, he poured two glasses of the thick, viscid liquid.

“I knew,” he repeated, walking back over and handing a wine glass to Will. He reluctantly took it, searching Hannibal’s unreadable features. “That you were a killer.”

“H-how…”

“There’s no need to discuss how, Will,” said Hannibal simply, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. “What’s to know is that I embrace your nature.”

“You’re not gonna rat me out.”

Hannibal shook his head, smirking softly. “Tell me, Will,” he breathed, pausing to take a long, languid sip of blood-red wine. He set down the glass and licked his lips, staring evenly at Will, whose pupils had dilated. “What do you feel when you kill someone? What drives you to take another’s life in cold blood?”

Will glanced aside, then stared at the floor, breaths hesitant. He stood and wandered around the room, aware of Hannibal’s fiery gaze on his body. “I… feel numb, mostly,” he started, keeping his eyes away from Lecter. “It’s easy to click off my emotions when I’m about to make the kill.”

He looked up at Hannibal, who sipped at his wine, listening closely. “Then the adrenaline kicks in. It’s so  _ energizing  _ and intoxicating that, when I finish a kill, I can’t help but wonder when I’ll make the next.” He stood by the tall, ceiling-high window, gazing through the translucent curtains. “Sometimes it’s so hard to control, I fear I’ll be caught.”

Hannibal stood, slowly joining Will’s side. His scent flared in Graham’s nostrils, sending his mind spinning.

“What’s your drive, Will?” whispered Hannibal, numbingly close. “The reason you kill?”

He stared at Hannibal, heart pulsing against his chest at their close proximity. Their eyes kept locked on one another—heated and intense.

“I want to meet Death,” he whispered.

Hannibal’s eyes glimmered, and he gave a chilling smile. He rested his hand on Will’s shoulder, and his heart alarmingly skipped at the contact.

“You will,” he breathed, lips brushing against Will’s ear. He shuddered, swallowing when Hannibal gave a squeeze to his shoulder before letting go. _ “He is here _ —in this city—after all.”

He glanced back at Hannibal, who smirked at him simply. His black eyes glinted with a playful knowingness. “Tell me how you killed Sonya,” he hummed.

And he did.

  
  


After Will Graham’s confession, their therapy progressed into paths he never could have imagined. Hannibal indulged in practices quite unorthodox to his psychotherapy, like proposing ideas or tactics to improve how Will chose his targets—how he could kill them. Even how to cover up his tracks and let the bodies melt beneath the FBI’s radar.

At first, Will told himself that he should be concerned. That, perhaps, Hannibal could be a spy, whose task was to learn everything about him—gain such concrete evidence that, should he be caught and forced into court, he could never dream of finding a way out. But, as time progressed, Will found himself  _ trusting  _ Hannibal. Talking about his murders spilt from his lips so freely—so much so that it significantly reduced his stress from the FBI’s recent cases of his old, infringed-upon murders.

Jack noticed these small, accumulating changes, and decided to approach Will when he examined a body for another’s case. Price, Zeller, and Katz hovered around him, gazing at the body or fiddling with the computers or evidence.

“Dr. Lecter must be a great therapist,” said Crawford as he walked into the glass-walled room, clapping a hand on Will’s shoulder. He turned around and blinked out of his daze, eventually nodding. “You’re much more relaxed these days.”

“Yeah,” he said, glancing back down at the cadaver.

“That’s why I’m a bit hesitant to ask,” continued Jack, and Will looked back at him. “There’s been another body. The team down there says it’s been marked.”

“Another message,” grumbled Will.

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Jack gazed at Graham, eyeing him carefully. “I don’t want you coming with me if it’s going to ruin your progress with Dr. Lecter. We can’t have a repeat—”

“It’s fine,” Will interrupted, straightening himself despite his beating heart. “Take me there.”

“Are you sure?”

Will glanced back at the other three, who still milled about the lab, and looked back at Crawford. “Positive,” he said.

Everyday, Death was getting closer. 

_ If only he knew how close. _


	11. 11

“Macy Bryant, age 23. Killed by, what seems to be, natural causes,” breathed Crawford, staring down at an immaculately clothed, blonde woman in the dirt. By the lack of bugs, and the glow of her skin, she had come from a casket —recently placed. A funeral home lay only a mile away.

“Who discovered the body,” asked Will, mind already whirring through possibilities.

“An officer who was patrolling the area,” said Jack, glancing around at the trimmed wilderness about them. “Not suspicious, seeing as we’re on a park.” He stared at Will. “We’ve already interviewed him. At first, he thought she was just taking a nap—or passed out, even—but when he touched her…” 

Will nodded, kneeling down. “And the marking?”

“Beneath her shirt. It’s barely been touched, but you can see the hint of black.”

Will took a deep breath through his nose and closed his eyes, catching onto the faint scent of power and foreboding. Although the placement of the body was recent, Death’s scent seemed weak. He sighed, slipping some gloves on and opening the woman’s button-up shirt. On her stomach, respectfully away from her chest, stood the stark letter  _ M  _ in thin, elegant writing. 

Will dragged his finger along the letter and pulled his hand back. No smudging. 

Death.

“It’s him,” breathed Will, slowly standing up. Jack sighed and ran a hand over his head, staring down at the body in disappointment.

“We can’t catch what half the nation doesn’t believe in,” he said, referring to Death possessing a mortal form. He shook his head, a troubled expression flashing about his eyes. “Death, or whoever’s doing this, has already messed with five of our cases. If we don’t catch him soon, the public will get suspicious.”

Will grimaced. “I’m sure Freddie Lounds is already brewing up a fake story.”

“Three, to be exact,” said Katz, joining their sides. She nodded towards the body. “Work your magic, yet?”

“We already know who did it,” said Will.

“Yeah, but you don’t know  _ why,”  _ she explained. She glanced between Will and Crawford. “I’m gonna see if I can collect more evidence. But even I’m getting weary about these  _ ‘messages.’” _

“Need a minute?” asked Crawford. Will sighed and gave a reluctant nod, closing his eyes once Jack stepped away. The scene cleared, and he slowly opened his eyes, now standing in the doorway of the funeral home.

“There’s a service going on for a woman,” he muttered, walking inside. “She’s highly respected. Sophisticated.” He glanced around the filled chairs of mourning people, staring at Macy Bryant from within the casket. “Merely perfect.”

The scene skipped, and suddenly he was alone, standing before the casket. “I respect the dead,” he whispered, “but her sins amount enough to rely my message.”

He glanced around, finding the scene clear, and dragged the body out of the casket. Eyes sharp and movements calculated, he traveled the mile towards the public park and settled the body on the grass peacefully.

“Unlike the other bodies I’ve tainted, I must keep this one in a pristine state,” said Will, kneeling down. After making sure no one was around, he unbuttoned her shirt and dragged his finger along her stomach, scrawling the letter  _ M  _ elegantly. “My message goes beyond letters.”

He buttoned her shirt back up, staring at Macy’s peaceful, glowing face. “I am not just spit on mortals. Not just a deity who takes lives out of malice. I am also elegance and poise—a peaceful bridge between mortality and the afterlife.”

Will stood and lifted his gaze, closing his eyes. “May the mortals know my true intentions.”

He slowly opened his eyes, squinting up at the piercing sun. Jack slowly approached him.

“Well?”

Will glanced back at him, complacent. “There’s more to the messages,” he said. “It’s not yet finished, but Death wants us to know he’s not the scum humans speak of him to be. Instead of mauling Macy’s body and making her into a display, he kept her in her perfect state to show just how beautiful Undertaking really is.”

Jack sighed. “If he keeps this up…”

“We still have to wait,” said Will. “The message isn’t done.”

They gazed at the body, the three letters wandering about their heads.  _ I, A, M… I, A, M… _

_ I am. _

“How are we supposed to explain this?” said Jack, exasperated. “Humans can’t stop Death himself. He’s like a  _ god  _ for all we know.”

“He is one.”

A silence fell over them, and they continued staring at the body. Jack turned to Graham.

“In your next therapy session,” said Crawford, “you should mention this to Hannibal.”

Will glanced at Jack through the corner of his eye. “Why?”

“He knows a lot about this ‘Death’ stuff. Maybe he might know how to stop this, or—just anything that’ll help. Can you do that for me?”

Will stared at Jack, then nodded. “Yeah. I can.”

  
  


Death’s scent, though twisted with a hint of foreignness and cologne, always hung about the air in Hannibal’s house. Pleasant and welcoming.

“I heard of the new case,” said Hannibal, demeanour friendly as Will walked into the office. His brows furrowed as Lecter closed the door.

“Already?”

Hannibal nodded, and they seated themselves in their usual places, staring evenly at one another. “Tell me about it,” said Lecter.

Will hummed, resting against the back of his chair. “I was excited and nervous when I came to the scene,” he said, staring up at the ceiling. “At first, I was a little shocked to see how intact the body was.” He glanced down to find Hannibal staring at him, listening intently, and continued.

“The first two letters were written sloppily, but this one—a letter  _ M _ —was written in cursive.” His brows furrowed. “Now that I think about it, it reflects the deeper message Death wanted to portray.”

“And what is that?”

Will sat up and looked at Hannibal, catching him licking his lips. “Death’s more than what humans describe him as. Much more.” He nodded to himself. “From what I saw at the scene, he wanted to tell people he’s equable and collected. A god of richness.”

“That sounds quite correct,” said Lecter. Will nodded, pausing for a moment.

“Jack’s worried about the public getting too involved in these cases,” muttered Will. “We don’t know how we could stop Death.”

Hannibal’s eyes glinted with interest. “You want him to stop?”

Will hesitated. “Well…” He glanced aside.  _ “I  _ don’t want him to. But if this keeps up, we’ll be facing legal charges and whatnot. And—” He glanced back at Hannibal. “—if Death keeps meddling with my murders, I’m afraid I’ll be caught.”

“And how does this anxiety affect you?”

“It’s a mix, really,” said Will. “If the message is finished, then I might know how to meet Death.” Hannibal’s eyes glimmered at that. “But if the messages are used on my victims, I could be discovered. Excuses can only go so far.”

Hannibal nodded. “I assure you,” he said carefully, “that Death will not give you away. Millenia spent of Undertaking should have taught him to cover up his tracks quite well.”

Will sighed, slumping in his seat. “I’m getting impatient, though,” he sighed. “Death seems like he’s trying to…  _ drag  _ out the message.”

Hannibal hid a smirk. “But it gives you excitement, does it not? To know that Death has you in his thoughts—that he dreams of speaking to you on a deeper level?”

Will couldn’t help the racing of his heart. “After all these years,” he breathed. 

Hannibal nodded. “Even I can’t wait for what plays out,” he chided, gazing at the ever-clueless Will.  _ Soon,  _ rang in the air. Another pawn moved on the chess board.

_ May the game continue. _

  
  


One week later, Will and Hannibal sat in the office for yet another therapy session. Already, they grew deeply immersed in their conversation, and near the end of it, the air grew thicker with their interactions.

“If I killed someone tonight,” whispered Will, staring at Hannibal, “do you think Death would visit me?”

Hannibal tilted his head. “Well, I’m in no place to speak,” he said. “What makes you ask me that question today?”

Will’s eyes dragged about the recesses of the room, fingers itching. “You already know.” He glanced at Hannibal, meeting urging, black eyes. Graham huffed at the look he received, forcing himself to continue. “Death hasn’t left a message for a week. Nothing.”

“And you think killing someone will bring another message?”

Will nodded, fiddling with his fingers. “Exactly.”

Hannibal examined Graham, tilting his head and taking each and every one of his features into account. Furrowed brow, tapping fingers, pale complexion. Impatience and uncertainty itched from under his skin —plain to see.

“Tell me, Will,” breathed Lecter. “How would you do it?”

Graham glanced up, blinking at the question. It took a second for realization to dawn upon him, and he straightened himself. “With my hands,” he whispered lowly. Despite his uneven breaths, he gazed at Hannibal steadily. “Killing someone so soon—without planning…” He licked his lips. “If I’m to be caught, I want my last kill under freedom to be…  _ intimate _ .”

The air brewed with heat at his words, twisting as a silence fell over them. Hannibal and Will stared steadily at one another, and Graham swore his heart began to race at the electrifyingness of the atmosphere.

“Do you like intimacy with all your kills?” whispered Hannibal, eyes glinting. Another silence stretched between them.

“Only the important ones,” he said. “The ones that seem… worth the pleasure.”

“May the significant only receive the true attentions,” said Hannibal with a tilt of his head, “and the side characters little mind.” He smiled. “That’s how this world works, after all. You humans build your systems on power and status. The more power, the better the life, no?”

“It can go both ways,” Graham replied. “Too little power, and you suffer. Too much, and you fall under the weight of it all. Excess on either end makes one drown.”

“When you’re killing,” said Hannibal, “where do you think your actions stand? Are they attempts in hopes of cleansing this world? Making a statement?”

Will glanced aside, thoughtful. His brows furrowed. “I’ve never thought about how it affected other people,” he muttered. “Other than the families of the victims, at least.” He paused. “I am making a statement, though. Just not to the public.”

“To Death,” finished Hannibal, earning a nod.

“Exactly.”

“And do you think that—should you kill the man you promise of tonight—your statement will be heard by him?”

Will wearily scoffed, lips twitching into a smirk. “I’ve tried since I was 12 years old,” he chided, “to try and catch Death’s attention. To be…  _ noticed  _ by him. Maybe even…” He searched for the word, hesitant.  _ “Appreciated.  _ Just once.”

Hannibal smiled, black eyes glinting in knowing. “You’ve been noticed, Will,” he whispered. When Will’s eyes snapped up, he continued. “These messages, the letters—on  _ your  _ murders. Death savours his time very dearly. To give thought to your person and your work, and to even make a display or grandiose message of it—” Will swallowed. “—it shows that he has more than noticed you.”

Will sat in raptured silence, blinking. Hannibal leaned forward, elbows on knees, and stared Graham in the eye. Their eye contact was electrifying.

“As for being appreciated by Death, the god of Undertaking—a supernatural entity—that is something even I cannot answer yet.” He smiled. “Should you finish the message and understand it, perhaps you could work with Death. Then, he could truly stand beside you and your kills. Learn that murderous pulse beneath your veins.”

Will nodded, gazing at Hannibal steadily. “I’ll do it, then,” he breathed. “Tonight.”

Hannibal smiled. “Should you become a suspect, Will,” he whispered, “I will cover your every track.” 

His eyes glinted, and he sat up. “May no one stand in the way of you and Death.”


	12. 12

Heartbeat. Blood racing. Mind lost. Spinning.

Fast breaths. Panting. Excitement. Adrenaline. Exhalant rush.

Blood —so much blood.

Red.

Black in the moonlight.

Viscid. Thick. Flowing.

Will gasped a breath, calming his exploding heart and trembling limbs.

_ Beautiful. _

He kneeled by the body, knuckles white from gripping onto the knife. Slowly, with quivering breaths, he retraced each wound he’d inflicted. Glanced the blade over every curve, and stab wound, and slash—appreciating his work. His  _ art.  _

Will looked up at the night sky, fatigue chasing after his adrenaline rush. The knife hung limply in his hand, eyelids beginning to droop.

“I’ll meet you,” Will shakily whispered, heart racing. Beneath the moonlight, the blood on his body glittered like jewels. “Soon enough, Death. Please.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of freshly-mauled flesh, and—

His eyes snapped open, and he glanced around at his surroundings. With another deep breath, he stumbled to his feet, catching onto that scent he so longed for—the scent he grew to memorize throughout all these years.

Power, foreboding…  _ Death. _

“Hello?” he called into the air, tired heart racing once more. “Who’s there?”

Silence met his thrumming ears, and he spun in circles, searching the empty forest. He sniffed the air, merely staggering at how strong Death’s scent was. The rawness of it—the multitudinous calamity of it all, and—

Was that a hint of cologne?

Will turned back to the mauled body—a random man—and gazed at the gleaming blood and pale skin beneath the glimmering stars. Despite the ghastly wounds on his body, he made sure to leave a strip of flesh open for Death to—hopefully—leave another message.

He kept his knife in hand, glanced once more at his surroundings, and left the body to be found. Although Death’s scent lingered behind him as he walked away, he forced himself to ignore it.

_ Soon,  _ he told himself.

  
  


He didn’t expect how soon.

The next day, Jack stopped Will in the middle of the BAU, absolutely shaken.

“There’s been another body,” he said, eyes sharp.

“Is there a message?”

Crawford shook his head. “Greater than that, Will,” he said. “He’s back. The Chesapeake Ripper’s back.”

Will’s eyes widened, and confusion stirred in his gut. “Well, are we going there, or what?”

Jack hastily nodded, collecting himself. Quickly and easily, they made their way towards Washington, and as they neared, Will grew suspicious.

Why would the Chesapeake Ripper kill in the same exact place as he did last night?

They arrived at the scene and were instantly pummeled with an electrifying atmosphere—rushing Forensics, harried technicians. Even Jack’s pace matched the hurriedness of the scene as they approached the body. They had to act now—analyze every bit of evidence from the scene in order to catch their illusive Ripper after all these years.

“Signature markings,” said Katz as they neared her and the body. “He took a few trophies, even cut off the leg. Pretty gruesome this time, if you ask me.”

Will’s blood went cold as he stared at the crime scene. His own, and yet not his own. There lay the body of the random man he’d stabbed to death only last night, pierced with sharp, gleaming antlers. Right leg cleanly cut off, and in contrast, a sloppy incision below his rib cage.

“Profile,” Will managed out, voice gruff. “Give me his profile.”

“Emond Fischer. Thirty-one, resident of Washington. Single.” Katz shook her head down at the mauled, distraught body. “Barely any friends, so there aren’t any people who can state where he was last seen.”

Will grazed his eyes over the body, deeply inhaling the mingling scents about him. A hint of cologne stung his nose, and—he paused. There lingered a faint trail of power and foreboding—of Death. His eyes focused on the expanse of Edmond’s chest, still clean and bare. No message.

He kneeled down, ignoring the other’s questioning gazes, and gazed under the base of the antlers. His eyes trailed up over Fischer’s back, and his heart stilled.

“There’s another message,” he said, breathless. He stood up, looking between Katz and Crawford. “A letter ‘H.’”

“That doesn’t make sense,” said Jack with furrowed brows. “Death doesn’t put his victims on display.” Will inwardly scoffed at the words  _ his  _ victims. “At least, not every time.” Jack shook his head. “This is most definitely the Ripper.”

A thoughtful, heated silence fell between them, and then a jolting idea clicked in Graham’s head.

“Bram Bates,” he said, eyes snapping up. He shook his head, trying to force out the words which didn’t come out fast enough due to his racing thoughts. “He—When we closed the case, we had an unanswered question.”

He began to pace around the body, examining every detail—past the ones he himself had inflicted. “You asked me, Jack—Why would Death want to work with Bram Bates?” His thoughts raced faster. “Well—Bates was pronounced dead days after he was imprisoned. Heart attack, they said. Sure. What if we’re having the same thing?”

Katz shook her head. “Still not following.”

“The Ripper’s getting desperate,” said Will. “If Death’s marking is on  _ his  _ display—shouldn’t that mean they’re working together?”

Realization began to form in Jack’s eyes, and he hesitantly nodded along.

“I have a feeling,” continued Will, “that, should you make a deal with Death, the price you have to pay is to die.” He swallowed, eyes widening. “We’d be looking for natural deaths in the next 48 hours—around here.”

Jack’s eyes widened equally, and he put a hand to his head. “But that’s so much land to cover,” he said. “And the Ripper moves from place to place. Hell, he could be in another state by now.”

“Then we look, no matter what,” said Will. “You want to catch this guy, don’t you?”

Crawford sighed, chest strained. “Yes.”

“We’ll start now, then.”

And they rushed out of the scene, leaving the letter  _ ‘H’  _ behind them.


	13. 13

_ H, H, H,  _ rang in Will’s head as they rushed about the BAU, gathering intel and picking up any possibilities of where the Ripper might reside.

_ I, A, M, H… I, A, M _ —

Will’s brows furrowed, his thoughts drowning out the other’s urgent conversations.  _ I am H… I am H…  _ There was definitely more—or at least, there  _ had  _ to be.

_ I am home? H, H, H…  _

“Will?” deftly rang in his head. “Will.  _ Will.” _

“What—yes?” He shook himself, sitting up and glancing around. Jack glared at him. “What were you saying?”

“We can’t afford you spacing out, Will,” scolded Crawford. “Beverly just finished saying that the incision on the body was sloppy. All other cases with the Ripper showed a clean cut—neatly stitched afterwards.”

“Do you think the Ripper was cut short?” said Price, eyes intent.

“It could be a deeper message like last time,” Zeller chimed.

Will blinked away his racing thoughts, focusing them instead on the body. The scene flashed before his eyes, and he pondered in it.

“He wasn’t hurried,” said Graham, closing his eyes. His brows furrowed as he thought through his many options. “It’s almost like he was…  _ angry.” _

“The cut  _ was  _ deep,” muttered Katz, earning a nod.

“It was as if he were burdened, almost.” He opened his eyes. “If my guess is right—that the Ripper’s working with Death—then it’d be easy to assume he felt pressured. Reluctantly took his trophies, knowing the satisfaction of taking them wouldn’t be the same.”

“And we’re positive this isn’t just Death’s doing,” reiterated Jack. Graham nodded.

“I picked up on a bit of cologne at the scene,” said Will. “It was really faint because of the body, but it smells of elegance and class. We already know the Ripper’s a man of high status, but perhaps he could be higher.”

Price clasped his head, groaning. “He’s impossible to catch.”

A frustrated silence fell over them, each silently agreeing with his statement. Will huffed, shifting in his place.

“Let me talk to Hannibal,” he said. “He might give some insight on all of this.”

Jack nodded. “He’s helped with the Ripper’s cases before,” he muttered. He roughly sighed and bowed his head. “I’m only hoping he’ll help. And quickly.”

  
  


“I’ve been to many places, Will,” said Hannibal with an amused smile—one that held secret meaning. “Around the world, to be more specific.”

“So why here?” asked Will, sipping at wine in hopes to ease his thoughts of their recent, looming case. The cool liquid slid down his throat, calming him with every taste.

Lecter’s eyes glinted sharply, his smile twitching. “It was a matter of curiosity, at first,” he began smoothly. “Sparked by a man’s obsession over my father.” He smiled in earnest. “However, I’ve rather grown to like it here, during my search for this man. I’ve met many interesting people over the years, but I’ve never been intrigued with someone such as—” he tipped his head “—yourself.”

Will hummed at that, downing the rest of his wine. “Is it because I kill people?” Hannibal’s eyes glinted at that, and he picked up the bottle of wine beside him.

“Not completely,” he admitted. “There’s much more to you than a simple…  _ hobby,  _ so to speak.”

Hannibal leaned over to refill Will’s glass, making him smirk. “Trying to get me drunk?” he teased, eyeing Lecter as he leaned back in his seat. Hannibal only chuckled.

“I can see how tense you are,” he said. “Which leads me to my next point. You’ve been quite inclined for delicate chatter today. Are you trying to avoid what you did last night?”

Will sighed and slumped in his chair, taking another sip of wine. “I’m not worried about the man I killed,” he whispered, lazily looking up at the ceiling. “I’m worried about the man who messed with my murder.”

Hannibal tilted his head, hiding a smirk. “A man, you say?”

“The Chesapeake Ripper,” Will grumbled. “After a year, he finally shows himself again, but—” He shook his head. “How was he in the exact same place where I’d killed Emond? And—why did he even  _ use  _ my victim for his own display? How?” He ran a hand over his face, forcing himself to set his wine glass down. “What’s even more stressful,” he whispered, “is that we believe the Chesapeake Ripper is working with Death.”

Hannibal couldn’t help but chuckle, and Will’s eyes snapped on him with disbelief.

“What’s there to laugh about?”

Lecter cleared his throat and shook his head, collecting himself. “My deep apologies, Will,” he said. “I don’t take amusement to your situation, but rather—” He stared at Will, raising a brow. “You assume that the Ripper dare work with someone else? Even Death himself?”

Will blinked, opening his mouth to speak but losing the words.

“The Ripper is independent,” continued Lecter. “In all the cases we’ve seen, he does everything by himself. He revels in what he does—takes pride in his trophies. To confide in someone else—even a deity—could harm his cover.”

Will roughly sighed, burying his face in his hands. “There was a letter  _ H  _ on Emond’s back,” he said, dropping his hands. “Death purposefully avoided the blank spot I made on the body.”

Hannibal’s eyes glimmered. “Have you looked for a deeper message?”

Will shrugged, throwing up his hands. “There isn’t one.”

Lecter rose a brow and hummed, taking a sip of wine before speaking. “What I take from it,” he said, “is that, although Death takes interest in you, he won’t follow the path of which you carve for him.” He stared evenly at Graham. “You kill for him—leave him a strip of canvas for him to mark—but in a way, to him, that seems insulting.” Will blinked. “Death is his own deity. He decides his own paths to take and doesn’t allow a mortal to pave a way for him as if he were a child.”

Will paused, pondering after the words. “The message still isn’t finished,” he muttered.

“But in a way, it could be assumed finished with a different meaning,” hummed Hannibal, standing up. Will’s brows furrowed, and he stared at the floor. 

“I am H,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I still don’t—”

The racing thoughts from before flooded his mind, and his breaths stuttered. “H.  _ H.”  _ He gazed up at Hannibal— _ H _ annibal—and slowly rose, only feet away. He swallowed, breathing in the faint, yet still foreign, scent of Death.

“Hannibal,” he said, his name burning on the tip of his tongue. Tension brewed in the air, and Will’s heart sped up as his thoughts mulled through possibilities. “H. Your name starts with H.” His eyes widened, then narrowed, brows furrowed, head spinning. “What—”

He jumped between confusion and anger, opening and closing his mouth. “Y-you were behind everything—” Will hesitated, then made up his mind, stepping up to Hannibal and glaring up into black eyes. “Y-you’re Death,” he hissed, fists clenching. “That’s why you smell like him—that’s—”

He took a deep breath, and suddenly Hannibal was void of any scent of Death. Will blinked, breath hitching and body stiffening when Lecter leaned in close, their chests brushing.

“If I really am Death,” he whispered, breath hot over his face. “Then let me touch you.”

Will sharply inhaled, and he stared evenly at Hannibal. His words hung heavy in the air, and he swallowed, wearily standing his ground. After what seemed like an eternity, Hannibal broke into a smile and stepped away.

“Why don’t you join me for dinner,” he said simply, glancing over his shoulder before disappearing from the office. Will lingered for a second longer and shakily sighed, reluctantly following after him.

_ Dinner,  _ his thoughts pondered, muddled in his head.  _ That wouldn’t settle well. Not tonight. _

And yet, he wandered into the kitchen with him, listened when told to sit in the dining room, and let his mind race numbly as he stared off in waiting.

  
  


“Braised roast,” came Hannibal’s voice from the hallway as he neared, “Tender meat baked in clay with marrow, and Lady Apples on the side.”

He set the elaborate dish on the table before Will, who blinked in surprise. “You made this?” he muttered. Hannibal merely nodded, taking out a few utensils. First, he tapped the brittle clay, which cracked beneath the gentle force of the mallet. Then, he cut a few pieces of the leg and gave a serving to both him and Will.

“Enjoy,” said Hannibal as he sat down and settled himself. 

“Thanks,” Will muttered, glancing at Lecter before cutting a bite of the flesh. Grateful heat sang on his tongue, and his eyes widened, the soft meat practically melting in his mouth. “Wow,” was all he could say.

“My mother taught me,” said Hannibal. “It’s only when I moved here did I learn how to prepare dishes like these.”

Will swallowed his bite, pondering for a moment. “Your parents, are they…” He waved his fork. “Gone, like mine?”

Hannibal’s eyes glinted. “Not exactly,” he responded. “My father, still very much alive, but my mother—” he paused “—well, she’s between the lines.”

“What do you mean,” asked Will as he took another bite of savory meat. He hummed at the taste as Hannibal examined him slyly.

“That’s a topic for another time.”

“Now’s a good time,” said Will stubbornly. Lecter rose a brow.

“There is a time and place for everything, Will,” he said smoothly. “But as your therapist, you must understand that I value my personal life, as well.”

Will sat back in his seat and huffed, taking another bite of flesh. “Where’d you get this meat?” he asked, motioning to the clay-covered flesh. Hannibal’s eyes glinted.

“A friend of mine,” he said. “He provides the meat, and I butcher it myself.”

Will hummed, picking at his plate. “I assume you won’t tell me more about these ‘friends?’”

Hannibal smiled. “In due time, Will,” he whispered, voice heavy with certainty. “I will show you everything.”


	14. 14

Will came home that night, feeling content and full, but with an aching hole in his chest. His mind still dully pounded with his and Hannibal’s earlier interaction.

_ Hannibal… Death…  _

He laughed at himself, shaking his head. How could he assume such a thing? Hannibal was merely a therapist. Just human. A human who —oddly smelled of—

Will groaned and roughly sat at the edge of his bed, staring into the dark panels of his home. Still, despite the confusing and intense nature of it all, he couldn’t get the image of Hannibal’s eyes flashing into his out of his head; their close proximity and the demeaning atmosphere. Dare he say, he perhaps…  _ enjoyed  _ the threatening aura of Hannibal’s stature.

He sighed, pulling the covers over him and staring up at the ceiling.

_Hannibal is not_ _Death,_ he reassured himself. It took a while, but as sleep finally ebbed down on him hours later, he believed it.

  
  


Unease stretched taut around Will over the course of a month. Long and dragging, neither the Chesapeake Ripper or Death had made any sign of activity. Sessions with Hannibal gave him little ease—after all, he always smelled so peculiarly of Death—and Jack, noticing this change in demeanour, kept Will at a safe distance from most of the cases. What made matters worse was Freddie Lounds and her conniving articles, leaving Will irritated, impatient, and most of all, burnt out.

“Can you believe they’re calling Death the  _ ‘Vandalist Killer?’”  _ Will expressed one day, agitated with Lounds’ most recent article. “It’s absurd.”

Hannibal stared at Will cooly, a glint in his eyes. In the month of little action, they had brushed off Will’s accusation of Lecter being the fated Death. He raised his glass and took a sip of wine. “And this makes you feel?” 

“Cheated, maybe. Upset.” He slumped in his chair. “Of all the names in the English language, she chose  _ Vandalist.  _ Death isn’t—he isn’t like  _ that.” _

Hannibal hid a smirk behind another sip of wine. “What is he like then?” he muttered, eyeing Will with sharp eyes.

Graham pondered for a moment. “Respectable. Sophisticated, perhaps.” He sighed and ran a hand through his unruly locks. “All I know is that Lounds could’ve gone with something a bit nicer. Leave it up to her to skew everything up.”

“What I’m getting from you,” said Hannibal smoothly, “is that you care for Death’s image?”

Will scoffed. “Not many people believe he exists—in mortal form, I mean,” he added with an irritated shrug. “In the end, my feelings are useless. They’re not helping anybody.”

Hannibal gazed calmly at Will. “Human emotions are never useless, Will,” he said smoothly. “Further conflict, they may sometimes cause, but in the end, they are a means to better analyzing oneself.” He set his wine glass down and crossed his legs. “Tell me, Will, why does Mrs. Lounds’ article irritate you so? You care for Death’s image, yes, but—could there be more?”

Will sat in silence for a while, staring at the floor and mulling over a response, anything. Still, nothing came up. Why  _ did  _ he care? He let out a strangled laugh and shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he said after a while, avoiding Hannibal’s gaze. “Maybe I…” He shook his head at himself.

“You don’t have to hide anything, Will,” assured Lecter, leaning closer to him. Will sighed and leaned back in his seat, staring off at Hannibal’s desk in the distance. Another gentle silence dragged through them.

“Maybe I think of him as a friend,” he admitted quietly. 

Hannibal tilted his head, examining him.

Will’s lips twitched in an embarrassed smile. “I-I’ve been… killing people—all these years. Just to see  _ him.  _ And now that he’s been showing up, I feel like—” His brows furrowed as he searched for the words. “—maybe he’ll actually do the one thing I’ve ever wished from someone.”

“To meet you,” Hannibal finished.

Will rubbed his face and shook his head. “Like I said. It’s stupid. Never even  _ spoken  _ to him and I feel like we have something.”

Hannibal knowingly smirked at that.

“Dinner’s preparing in the oven,” said Hannibal after a gentle silence. “If you’d like, you can join me. Perhaps it will make you more relaxed.”

Will gazed at Hannibal, the fatigue clear on his face. After a pause, he playfully smirked. “Sounds like a date, Dr. Lecter,” he teased. Hannibal rose a brow but, nonetheless, returned the playful jibe. 

“I don’t get romantically involved with my patients,” he said, an amused smirk on his face. “But, if it makes you feel better…” 

He let his words trail off, and Will chuckled to himself, standing up along with Hannibal.

“Sure,” said Will. “Hard to resist your cooking.”

Hannibal gave a sincere smile. “You can wait in the dining room. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

With that, he agreed, and dinner was served not long after.

  
  


“Do you ever think of eating your kills, Will?” asked Hannibal as he finished a bite of tender meat, gazing at the other. Graham stopped mid-poke with his fork and glanced up at Lecter.

“I’m not in therapy  _ still,  _ am I?” he said with the hint of a smile. Hannibal merely rose a brow at him, and Will shrugged with a sigh. 

“Maybe,” he answered, raising his sliver of meat and examining it, letting its flesh glint under the light. “Why—is this  _ human _ we’re eating?”

Will chuckled and smirked over at Hannibal, whose eyes flashed as he returned the gesture.

“We’d both be in trouble if that were the case,” hummed Lecter, gazing fixedly at Will as he ate the meat, lips sliding over the fork. Graham closed his eyes and sang at the taste, lashes fluttering and eyes looking over at Hannibal.

“Can I ask you a question, Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal tilted his head. “Go ahead.”

“Just how many patients do you eat dinner with like this?” he muttered, leaning an elbow on the table to lean closer to Lecter. “This feels…” He searched Hannibal’s unreadable gaze. “Intimate.”

Hannibal breathed in slowly, soft and measured. “Not many,” he said quietly, staring just as intensely at Graham. 

The air seemed to stir again, brewing with a binding, taut heat. Will hummed, eyes glancing down and up Hannibal’s figure—which felt like an eternity—before he leaned back into his own seat. A smirk took his lips.

“This really is good meat,” he said, wavering the tension in the atmosphere. Hannibal managed a slow, calculated blink and tipped his head at him.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said.

And with a few more glances, and an electrifying silence in the air, they continued with dinner.


	15. 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating last week! I got caught up with some stuff.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!! <3<3

In the middle of that month with no trace of Death, four guests hung about Lecter’s office.

“We want to meet him,” a female voice dragged through the room, husky and slow. Will Graham had just left his session hours ago, leaving Hannibal with the four newcomers. They stood about the room with purpose, staring at Lecter with meaningful gazes.

“In due time,” he replied, pouring three glasses and leaving the fourth empty. “If we overwhelm him, all my calculated work may be blown to pity granules of nothingness. Lose him, and my father will be very disappointed.”

“ _ Victorum  _ got to meet him,” said another woman with a louder voice, pointing towards him. Victorum took a glass of wine from Hannibal, tipping his head and merely gazing at the others through half-lidded eyes.

“I was merely playing a little game,” he drawled, voice calm and regal —but nowhere near the elegance of that which Hannibal possesed. “Trust me, it is quite worth the wait. This Will Graham is a  _ treat.” _

Hannibal eyed Pikes at that word but no more, handing the wine glasses to the other three. The empty one settled in the thinnest one’s hands.

“I want this next play to be from all of us,” he said, speaking of tainting Will’s murders like the next move in a game of chess. “I want to see his mortal mind struggle and collapse at the sight of our work.”

He gazed at his four guests calmly, taking in the sight. Four entities. Four fellow traversers… 

Before him stood the Four Horsemen.

Victorum stood on the far left, poised and regal. Next to him stood a man with a built, commanding frame and light-chocolate skin. Beside that man lounged a blonde woman with striking, beautiful features; and on the far right stood the thin woman with the empty wine glass, straight black hair framing her hollowed face.

“Not like we can do much anyway,” said the blonde, whose voice was boisterous. “It’s only you and Victorum who kill those little humans. Us three aren’t murderers.”

Hannibal rose a brow at that statement. “I merely end the mortals’ _stories_ , Penelope. It is very different from murder.”

The thin woman set her glass down, her air commanding respect despite the lithe littleness of her frame. “Either way, it doesn’t matter,” she said, her words slow and gaze slurred. “We all kill in different ways.” Her weary gaze glanced at the blonde. 

“You, Penelope—disease. Killing humans the slow and gruesome way.” A sadistic smile crept to her purplish lips. “More fun, if you ask me.” She then gazed at the built man. “Miguel, with war. Simple fights, really, but they can get carried away.” 

She glanced at Pikes. “Victorum, with conquest. Though—you’ve taken quite a liking to what the humans call  _ serial killers.” _

Her gaze finally landed on Hannibal, the depths of her eyes chilling and staid. “And you,  _ Dominus _ . Azmaveth— _ carissimi mortem. _ ” She gave another slow, tingling smile. “Well, we cannot dare question your actions.” She glanced back at the blonde, Penelope, as she said that. “To disobey you means disobeying the entire legacy of Death.”

She bowed her head in respect, and Hannibal returned the gesture.

“Thank you, Thana,” he said, taking a slow sip of red wine. A pause stretched over them, and Victorum wandered across the room, sipping his wine.

“The next victims,” he said, sidling up to a bookshelf and examining the old covers, “you want them to be special.”

Hannibal nodded, leaning against the edge of his desk. “I want to see just how far Will Graham can go.”

Victorum nodded, turning back to face the center of the room. The others gazed at him. “I’ve an idea, then,” he said, milling around Hannibal’s chair and leaning against it. “For all of us to chip in. Make this next move special.”

He glanced across the other horsemen. “Penelope can infect one of Will’s targets (or one of ours),” he said, thinking through the images forming in his head. “Then, you, Miguel—can bring this target into a fight. Nothing much, perhaps just a quarrel.” 

He took a sip of wine, humming. “During this entire process, Thana— _ famine _ —you can make the victim starve himself.” He gave a simpering smile. “We’ll see if the papers acknowledge male anorexia.”

“Blithering dwights won’t, I’m sure,” Thana muttered under her breath as Pikes continued. 

“Then, this target—weak from malnutrition and battered from his last fight—can finally settle in the hands of Will Graham.”

Victorum glanced over at Hannibal. “Well. Only if you lead the man to this certain target. If that’s not the case, we can deal with the man ourselves.”

“End his story,” said Hannibal. 

Victorum nodded, his words hanging in the air. “I could take his eyes—sinful as they may be,” he said quietly. “And you can add the finishing touches.”

A silence fell through the room, and Hannibal nodded.

“I like it,” he said with a glint beneath his eye. “All of us—pitching in—creating such a daunting image for our quaint admirer.”

Penelope grinned, downing the rest of her wine. “I’m in,” she cooed. “You know I can’t resist a hot morsel in bed.”

Hannibal gazed at his Horsemen. “We’ll find a worthy victim. A story soon to end.” He tipped his head at Victorum. “Thank you, Conquest.”

He smirked and gave a small bow. “Anything,  _ dominus.” _

And then they continued chatting over normal things: like their favorite ways to kill or maim; recent stories of their adventures; and, most importantly, Will Graham.

“I’m fine,” Will snapped into the phone. “The reason I’ve been so restless is because you’ve been pushing me away from all the cases, Jack.”

Crawford grumbled on the other line. “You’re a valuable asset to the team, Graham, and if we lose you to some psychotic spell—”

“I’m fine,” he repeated. “You’re sure there’s another message? I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

A strained sigh came through the speaker. “It’s gruesome. And possibly another…  _ collaboration.” _

Will’s heart raced at that. “Give me the address. You can tell me the details when I get there.”

He clicked his phone off and shoved it in his pocket, breaths unsteady with excitement.  _ Another message. _

_ Finally. _

Within an hour, he arrived at the crime scene. Yellow police tape surrounded the area, and Forensics rushed about, collecting data and exchanging information. Graham ducked under the tape, examining his surroundings. An open, vast field, with dry, nettled grass yawned before him; similar to the setting in which the Chesapeake Ripper’s copycat had displayed a body once.

Crawford, spotting Graham, beckoned him over from afar. Will neared the scene, eyes watchful and curiosity peaking. 

“Jared Aines and Scott Barnes,” said Jack as Will sidled up to him. “Found last night.”

Will’s gaze loomed over the two mauled bodies, eyes slowly widening. The powerful scent of Death pummeled his senses, making him nearly stagger back. Crawford steadied him with a hand.

“You okay?”

Will nodded deafly, staring down at the bodies. Everything screamed  _ Death, Death, Death,  _ but—there was something else. Something  _ more.  _ Something significant. Four new scents mingled under Death’s aura, tingling on the tip of his tongue and invading every crevice of his brain. 

“I need space,” Will managed out under his breath, staring down at the two cadavers. When no one moved, he looked sharply at Crawford, who lingered before calling off his men. Will took a breath once the rustling of their footsteps ebbed away, and he took the time to properly examine the scene. 

Two male bodies—middle age yet with arduous, beautiful figures. The one on the left—Jared Aines—had hollow cheeks and bones protruding from beneath his skin.  _ Starvation _ . 

He knelt down beside the body and examined closer, noting that both eyes had been gouged out violently—as if the taker was disgusted with what he received. Will’s brows furrowed at that.

_ Victorum Pikes? _

He shelved the name for later, his brain racking through millions of thoughts at the same time. Already, he felt the strain in his head from lack of recent practice.

“No message on his body…” murmured Will, glancing down across the fair flesh of Jared’s dead body. Bruises and cuts swelled to the surface.  _ Signs of fight. _

Will stood and examined the second body of Scott Barnes, noting the same bruises and cuts. This body, however, was more mangled than the other. Vibrant bursts of color swelled on Scott’s lithe arms—signs of violent gripping. His eyes, however, were left intact.

Graham let his eyes linger on the man’s chest, where those fated black markings lay. Its letter was thick—as if Death used both his hands with loving, full palms—caressing the body’s frame. Though messier than the other letters, it was still eligible.

A letter  _ ‘R.’ _

Will stared at it for a while, thoughts straining and clashing at the overflow of evidence. He gripped his head and shut his eyes, trying to calm himself for a moment. The scent of Death was getting to him—so strong, and—

He found himself thinking of Hannibal.

Will deeply inhaled, finding himself relaxing at the thought of him. The sumptuous suits he wore… the poise and regality of which he carried himself… the way his eyes glinted and stared right through him with utter fascination… 

Will slowly exhaled, and after a few minutes, he opened his eyes, mind clearer and refreshed. Although the scent of Death still lingered in his nose, he tried suppressing it, doing his best to focus on the scene.

Jared Aines: skin and bones—starvation; bruises—sign of fight; eyes gouged out—possibilities of Victorum Pikes.

Scott Barnes: body mangled—thrown to the ground; brighter bruises—signs of fight, as well; eyes intact; the letter  _ ‘R’  _ on his chest—Death’s message.

Will circled the cadavers, mind milling through scenarios.  _ I am H.R… I am H.R… _

His brows furrowed at the choice of letters, but before he let the confusion muddle his mind, he took another deep breath and calmed himself. He lingered there for a long moment, staring down at the bodies with a blank stare. Slowly, he closed his eyes— _ swish, swish _ —and opened them to be met with afternoon sunset.

“There are four other people with me,” Graham muttered, now on the edge of the vast field. He glanced at the others, imagining them as vague figures. The thickest-set one held both bodies.

“This is special,” said Will, and suddenly they were walking towards the middle of the field as the sky darkened. “A reunion of rekindled spirits.”

The large man settled Jared Aines down carefully, then threw Scott Barnes’ body unceremoniously to the ground beside him. Electricity hummed in the air as the five of them looked down upon the bodies.

“I—Death—motion for Victorum to take Jared’s eyes. He’s reluctant, but, nonetheless, he obeys.”

As he said that, Victorum reluctantly knelt by Jared’s body, using thin black gloves to tilt Jared’s face towards him. A disgusted shudder ran through him before he dug into Aines’ sockets with inhuman strength, tearing them out with a lewd and bloody squelch.

Victorum reared back and dropped the pair of eyeballs, practically snarling. “Disgusting,” he hissed under his breath. “So impure.”

Will glanced at the others for a moment before kneeling before Jared’s body. “I mark him,” he illustrated, though Will himself had no idea if a message really possessed Aines’ cadaver. “Then, I move on to Scott’s body.”

With this, he brought out his hands slowly, placing both hands on Barnes’ chest and feeling the large expanse of chest. Slowly, he dragged his entire hand into the letter  _ ‘R’  _ across his skin. He stood and examined his work with a chilling stare.

“This is meant to give Will Graham a challenge,” he narrated, staring through Death’s eyes. “This is my design. To tear him from the inside out until he can’t help but cling to me.”

Will forced open his eyes, panting and staring down at the crime scene. He hastily put on some rubber gloves and knelt by Jared Aines’ body, examining every inch of his body. Surely there was a message on him—this was the first time there’d been two bodies in a scene devised by Death.

His fingers slid across Aines’ jaw, over the curves of his bones… He proceeded to push Aines’ body so he could take a look at his back. Still, there was no message. Just the confusing letters  _ ‘I am H.R.’ _

Will huffed, standing and looking down at the bodies. Crawford slowly approached him from behind, sidling up to his side.

“Well?”

Will numbly shook his head. “This is more than Death,” he muttered. “He and four others committed this crime.”

Shock glanced over Crawford’s features. “How do you know?”

“I can smell it,” said Will, voice low. “I can  _ feel  _ their presences.”

Jack huffed, running a hand over his head. “Tell us more at the BAU. We can have the others file everything from there.”

Will nodded, staring at the cadavers as Crawford left. He stood there—taking in the chilled, afternoon air, and exhaled slowly.

Just how little did he know about Death?


	16. 16

“How can you tell? Evidence only shows signs of — _ max _ —two attackers.”

Will shook his head. “I sensed four people. Either Death knows we’re onto him and is trying to confuse us, or he really is working with—dare I say—other…  _ accomplices.” _

“You mean other supernatural entities?” said Zeller, setting his clipboard aside. He glanced at Price with disbelief.

“Like the Four Horsemen?” he joked in response.

Will stilled at that, and suddenly, a flash of he and Hannibal talking of those fated four pummeled his head.  _ Four Horsemen…  _ Four different scents, four different signs of attack—

“Will,” Crawford’s voice pulled through his thoughts.  _ “Will.” _

He shook his head and sighed. “Sorry,” he grumbled. “What is it?”

“Tell us more about what happened.” He glanced back at Price and Zeller with a raised brow. “No matter how crazy it sounds.”

Will huffed, standing up close to the cadavers on the metal tables. “There were five people,” he said slowly, beginning to point at the bodies. “Jared Aines is all skin and bones—that’s not normal. I believe he starved. Maybe even had anorexia.”

He began to point at the bruises from both bodies. “Signs of fight, obviously. But if you look closer—” Will carefully leaned over and motioned towards Barnes’ bright bruise on his arm. “—Barnes was gripped violently. By whom, you might ask?” He then pointed at Aines’ hand, whose knuckles were bloodied and strained. “These two were in a fight.”

Price’s brows furrowed. “What, so—the killer set his mind on one victim, and when he messed with another guy, he decided to kill both?”

“It’s possible,” replied Will. “Or it was on purpose.”

He continued. “Then—with the reports you two made—Jared Aines suffered from untreated STDs.” He glanced at the others. “Disease, which would have slowly killed him anyway.” Will then pointed at Aines’ body, who—unnervingly—had most of the “special” treatment. 

“Now look at the eyes.” Will neared Aines’ head, hands hovering over his face. “They’ve been gouged out forcefully—as if the attacker were in disgust. Now, we know that Victorum Pikes killed children because their eyes were, as he’d say,  _ pure.  _ This could be him—working with Death. Their target just so happened to be an adult.”

“Dr. Lecter said that Pikes disappeared,” Crawford pointed out.

Graham stared down at the bodies, shaking his head. “Either he’s a liar,” he said, “or his friend came back without saying anything.”

Jack huffed, running a hand over his face. Should these murders keep coming up—with no evidence to pin on an actual human being—the press would get very suspicious. And very soon.

Jack put his hands on his hips. “Tell us the deeper message,” he muttered.

  
  


“He’s challenging me,” he told Lecter, leaning forward in his seat.

The air seemed heavier this time when Will came into Hannibal’s office. They sat at their respective chairs, gazing at one another with purpose. Hannibal merely tilted his head.

“And how is he doing that?”

Will glanced aside, mulling over the images in his head. “Remember when you mentioned the Four Horsemen?” he muttered, clasping his hands together. Hannibal rose a surprised brow at that. “I think—even if I’ve never heard of something like it—that Death is working with them on this specific case.”

He glanced at Hannibal, who had suppressed the impressed gleam in his eye.

“Death’s trying to…” Will’s brows furrowed. “He’s trying to  _ test  _ me.”

Hannibal wet his lips, gazing fixedly at Graham. “Describe the scene for me,” he said. “Go back as far as you can.”

Will wavered, eyes flitting down to the floor. He ran a hand through his hair as he imagined possibilities, even closing his eyes at one point to enhance his thoughts. During it all, Hannibal’s fiery gaze stayed on him.

“I picked up a scent on their bodies,” said Will, thinking of it now that he reflected on the case. “Alcohol. They were at a bar.”

Hannibal nodded slowly, the dangerous glint in his eyes hidden from Will.

“They got in a fight,” he continued. “There didn’t seem to be any reason for them to hold a grudge against each other… unless—” Will shut his eyes tighter. “One of the horsemen…”

“War,” Lecter softly said, earning a nod.

“Aines was still bone-thin at this time, but somehow, Barnes took the most damage.” He shook his head at that, the possibility of such confusing him. 

“Affected by Famine,” said Lecter.

“The fight got serious, so…” He ran a hand through his hair, grabbing a fistful of his curly locks. “War—he took them outside. Killed them.”

Hannibal hid a smile.

“Then the other horsemen came, as well as Death, and they dragged the bodies to the field. War set them down, and then Death and Victorum—” His eyes fluttered open then, blinking hastily. “Victorum…”

Hannibal leaned forward, absolutely delighted with how Will struggled with the array of evidence. “What is it, Will?” breathed Lecter, tilting his head as he leaned closer. Will shook his head.

“You said that the Four Horsemen possessed a mortal form, but—I didn’t think—” He swallowed. “Victorum Pikes—Conquest?”

Hannibal’s eyes glinted knowingly. “His tendency to collect innocent children’s eyes portrays a need to vanquish sin.”

Will’s gaze snapped up to Hannibal. “Did you know this? That—that Pikes is—” He roughly stood, frustrated, and glared down at Lecter. “You know—the longer these cases go on, the more  _ suspicious  _ I become of you, Dr. Lecter.”

Electricity zipped through the air, and Hannibal merely looked up at Graham with a collected expression. “I merely said that the Four Horsemen possess mortal form, Will. Who is to know which body they inhabit?”

Will stared down at Hannibal for a while longer, huffing as he began to walk around the office. Hannibal’s gaze followed him, taking in every inch of his frame.

“I don’t understand why Death would make things more complicated—now, of all times. Why didn’t he do this with Sonya? Catch my attention then?”

Hannibal reached for his wine glass and took a slow sip. “One must learn to crawl before they can run, Will. With all of these messages, you have evolved, no?” Will shrugged at that. “To give such a case to you in the beginning would have overwhelmed you. But now—now, you are better equipped.”

Will slumped against the tall ladder that stretched up to the upper bookshelves, sighing. Hannibal grazed his eyes over the sight without shame.

“So tell me, Will,” he said, standing and sipping his wine as he approached, “have you caught the deeper message Death wants to tell you?”

Will gazed at Lecter, who was now a few feet away, resting against the back of his chair. He sighed, gaze wavering under Hannibal’s calculated stare.

“I don’t know,” he said softly, swallowing as he glanced away. “There was only one letter this time, and yet, there were two bodies. That can’t be coincidental.”

Hannibal rose a brow, his disappointment unnoticed by Graham. “Try to look deeper, Will,” he said. “Try to look deeper.”

Will floundered for a moment, his mind fatigued from the day’s work. Hannibal stood and stepped closer to him, and Will straightened himself, hands sliding on the wood of the ladder. He couldn’t help the sharp inhale, nor the spiked rhythm of his heart.

“Two bodies,” whispered Lecter, eyes flicking down to the tremble in Will’s lip. “One seriously maimed, and the other, not so much. Disease plaguing them—a story, dragged out before death. What does that say?”

Will inhaled, catching the scent of Hannibal’s cologne. It made his heart spike again, harsher. “Death wants to show the burdens of life,” he muttered under his breath. “No matter the pain someone carries, we all die. Some harsher than others—like Jared Aines—yet death is the same. It doesn’t make anyone better than another.”

Hannibal slowly sipped his wine as Will spoke, gazing at him steadily through his lashes.

“It’s also a message for me,” he said, voice lowering into a whisper. “A challenge. Death wants to see how far I’ll go—wants to know just how desperately I want to see him. He doesn’t want all this to go to waste; that when I finally meet him, I won’t run away.”

“To make sure you’re worth it,” chimed Hannibal.

Will nodded, then glanced up into Lecter’s eyes, catching the flecks of gold in maroon. “I’m not backing down,” he said steadily. “Even if I’m unworthy.”

Hannibal hid a smirk. “You are quite worthy, Will. I’m sure of it.”

Graham lingered for a moment, reveling in their close proximity, and slid away from the ladder. Lecter’s eyes followed, intense.

“Still,” he said, pacing the office and running his fingers along the books. “Two bodies and one letter. I must have missed something.”

Lecter watched Will wander the room under dark eyes. “Messages can be hidden, you know. Even beneath the finer grains.” He walked over to his desk to set the wine glass down. “Despite the deeper meanings, not all are obvious like the letters on the victims’ flesh.”

Graham scoffed. “I know that,” he said. “I’m sure there’s so much more that Death’s trying to tell me, but it’s too complicated for me to even comprehend. I’m only human.”

Hannibal leaned against his desk. “Perhaps it’s where words churn best… at the tip of the tongue…” Will turned towards him, taking in the sight of Hannibal lightly spread on the desk. “...within the mouth.”

He made a show of glancing down at Will’s lips.

Will thickly swallowed, unable to ignore the thick tension in the air. His eyes then widened, a spark firing in his brain. 

“Mouth,” he said with realization. “I didn’t check his mouth.”

“And why didn’t you?”

Will ran a hand through his hair, shrugging. “Distracted, I guess. I’ve—I should go now. See if there’s actually another message.”

Hannibal softly smiled, gazing at him with amusement. “Let me take you to the BAU.” He stood, his regal posture commanding no rebuttal. “You’ve already had a long enough day.” Will swallowed and flexed his hands for a moment, palms cold. After a moment, he nodded.

“Okay, yeah. But my car…”

“I’ll drive,” said Hannibal, running his hands over the nonexistent lines in his suit. “Keys?”

Will walked towards Lecter as he fumbled with his pocket, pulling out the jingling set of keys. “It’s a mess, so…”

Hannibal hummed, eyes glinting with amusement. “Not as bad as your hideous aftershave, I hope,” he teased, exiting the office and leaving Will standing there for a moment.

_ Aftershave? _

He glanced over at the ladder, heat rising to his face as he faintly ran a hand under his chin. “Did he just…  _ smell  _ me?” he muttered.

Will shook his head and left the office, walking out of the ornate house and into the chilled, grey air. He huffed and wrapped a scarf around his neck, burying his nose into it as he walked up to his car; Hannibal already sat in it, at the wheel, looking as regal as ever. The sight was almost unnatural.

He opened the door and slid inside, meeting Hannibal’s gaze.

“Ready?” he said, earning a nod. With that, they drove off to the BAU.


	17. 17

It was such an odd sight that Will couldn’t help but stare.

Hannibal, always in those three-piece suits and always in pristine looks, stood out in the dingey setting of his car. The worn, faded grays of the vehicle clashed with the dark brown of his suit. As Will continued to stare from under his ragged scarf, Hannibal noticed the gaze.

“Something’s on your mind,” said Lecter, glancing aside at Will. He blinked, realizing just how long he’d be staring. “What is it?”

Will faced the front again, shaking his head. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Just… examining.”

Hannibal couldn’t help his amused smile. “Examining me?”

Unwarranted heat rose yet again to Will’s cheeks, warming him more than the scarf around his neck. He sighed, glancing over at Hannibal with a raised brow and a crooked smile.

“You never stop therapy with me, even out of the office, do you, Dr. Lecter?” he teased. Hannibal only smiled.

“Hard to avoid,” he said. “You’re very interesting, Will.” 

He glanced away at that statement, but they left it at that. Comfortable silence fell over them, and only the drone of the car and the road beneath its wheels echoed around them. 

Will found himself glancing at Hannibal again, (more inconspicuous this time) taking in the sight. Rather than a broad sweep over his immaculate clothing, his eyes fell on the lines and details of Lecter’s face —his well-kept, soft-looking brunette hair; the unique curves of his face and the structure of his jaw… his eyes lingered on Hannibal’s, who were focused on the road—dark, shining coals swimming with knowledge. His eyes then flitted down to Hannibal’s lips as he licked them, heat rising to his neck, but before he could do any further staring, they had rolled up to the BAU.

Sunset had already fell along the horizon at this time, and most of the others who were on Will’s case had already gone home. They exited the car and headed inside, walking straight to the room where the two cadavers were held. Hannibal followed close by the entire way.

Will slipped through the glass doors, eyes sweeping over the two covered bodies. He peeled away the thick cover from the first body, revealing Jared Aines’ body. As he slipped on some rubber gloves, Hannibal stepped closer, gazing over Will’s shoulder. He stayed silent the entire time, examining his each and every action—down to the shifts in breath or the blink of an eye.

Graham leaned over the cadaver, his side lightly grazing Hannibal’s, and pried Aines’ mouth open. The weight in the air grew heavier and thicker, and Will slipped out his phone as a flashlight to shine down Aines’ mouth. Squinting, he searched his mouth, eyes landing on his tongue. The letter  _ ‘E,’  _ damp and once hot, stained the cadaver’s tongue.

“I am her…” whispered Will, and again, the familiar scent of Death flooded his senses. “I am  _ here.”  _ He stared for a while, the weight of it hanging on the tip of his tongue.  _ I am Here.  _ “ _ Death _ is here…” he breathed, and that air of power and foreboding grew stronger—Death sang in his nostrils, burning and strong. 

“Here… here…” he whispered to himself, mind high on the scent of Death.  _ Where? _

Hannibal’s hand glided across his shoulder and held on, and when Will turned around to look at him, Death’s scent had become entirely void. He blinked out of his trance.

“That’s the message, then?” he asked. Will swallowed, lingering for a moment, heating up as he realized how close they were—Hannibal, looming over him from behind; face leaning down close until they were merely nose to nose.

Graham straightened himself, taking off the gloves and shaking off Hannibal’s hand.

“There’s no other way it can go,” he said, disposing of the gloves.  _ “‘I am here.’  _ The question is whether or not Death will finish the message despite this.”

Hannibal hid a smile. “I suppose we’ll have to find out,” he said, following after Will as he left the room. “Death is, however, an entity of regality. He will leave no deed unfinished, if he truly values the sophistication of his reputation.”

Lecter sidled up to Will as they walked back to the BAU’s entrance. “What I want to know,” muttered Will, “is if Death will actually meet me—face to face—after all this.”

They stopped in front of the entrance, and Hannibal tilted his head at Will with an unreadable expression.  _ Silly, silly man.  _

“Maybe it’s all just a game,” said Will.

“Death values his time greatly, Will,” reassured Lecter. “To play games is entirely out of his vocabulary. Every moment he spends—whether thinking of you; or even  _ with  _ you—is calculated, planned…  _ yearned  _ for.”

Will glanced up into Hannibal’s eyes, who stared back with earnest. He sighed, running a hand through his hair and pushing open the doors. The beginnings of moonlight flooded over them.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said. “But, even if I see him, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Brainstorm your ideas,” said Lecter. “Right now, if you wish. I’d like to hear them.”

Will chuckled, and they sidled into the car. Hannibal started it, and the warmth of the heater made any cold in the car fade away.

“I’d want to talk to him,” said Will as they pulled out of the parking lot. “Other than that… I’m not sure.”

And, for the rest of the car ride back, they spoke about Death, and how Will thought of meeting him.

Maybe even kill with him.

  
  


Hannibal’s home gleamed brilliantly under the moonlight as they pulled into the driveway.

“Thanks for the ride,” said Will as they exited the car. He tightened the scarf around his neck and gazed over the hood at Hannibal, who simply smiled.

“Anything for a friend,” said Hannibal, and something in Will’s chest fluttered at that word. “Why don’t you stay the night? It’s late.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” he said, waving a hand. He walked around the front of the car, facing Hannibal, about to sidle into the driver’s seat.

“Are you sure? It’s been a long day. I’m sure a nice, warm bed will do you some good.”

Will hesitated, eyes wavering as he considered the offer. “I, uh…”

“Well, at least join me for some tea,” said Hannibal, sliding a hand up Will’s arm before he walked towards the house. Will glanced over his shoulder, and Lecter rose a teasing brow at him. With a shrug, he followed, and they walked into the kitchen. Graham rubbed his arms of the cold, grateful for the heat in the house.

Hannibal removed his jacket and loosened his tie, leaving him in his vest and button-up, and Will couldn’t help but blink and stare.

“What flavor do you like?” said Lecter, boiling some water in a teakettle. “I have oolong, black, green, chamomile…”

He glanced over at Will, who quickly blinked and cleared his throat. “Ahem… chamomile sounds nice.”

Hannibal lightly smirked and readied the tea, walking over to Will. “Let me take your jacket,” he said, presenting a hand. Will hesitated and nodded, shedding himself of the article and handing it to Lecter.

“Thanks…”

“Make yourself at home,” said Hannibal with a simpering smile. Will watched him disappear down the corridor, and he glanced around the large, modern kitchen. His eyes swept along polished wood or marble surfaces, along gleaming pots and pans and along the array of sharp, glinting knives. He sat down at the island table, resting his elbow on it as he gazed down the corridor which Hannibal left. Soon enough, he reappeared—this time without vest or tie, and shirt popped open by one button. Will swallowed at the sight and glanced away, wondering if he had a fever by how hot his cheeks had gotten.

“I hope you don’t mind the informalness of my undress,” said Hannibal, fixing his sleeves. “Lovely as those suits are, they’re not meant for all-day wear.”

Graham shook his head, watching Lecter as he sat down right next to him. “No it’s—” He cleared his throat. “Fine—it’s… fine. You look… nice.”

Hannibal gave an amused smirk, gazing at Will. “Thank you,” he said. He then straightened himself, leaning only slightly towards Will. It was enough to catch the scent of his sumptuous cologne, and he carefully breathed it in.

“So… killing—with Death,” said Lecter, bringing up their conversation from the car. “Tell me, what do you think it’d feel like?”

Will huffed through a smile, raising a brow at him. “Are you asking me this as a friend or as my therapist?”

“As a friend,” said Hannibal. “I can be curious too, you know. About the whole scheme of Death.”

Will tilted his head with a crooked smile, not forgetting the child-like gleam in Hannibal’s eyes. It was… endearing, to say at the least.

“Okay, then… Killing with Death—that is, if he’d even do such a thing with me,” began Will, eyes roaming the room as he thought. “It’d feel like…” He pursed his lips for a moment, narrowing his eyes. 

“Well, I would… I’d want it to feel—intimate.” He vaguely motioned his hands as he said that. “To feel Death’s presence around me the entire time. Know he’s there.” He glanced back at Hannibal, meeting his eyes. “With me.”

“You want a closeness with Death,” muttered Hannibal, earning a breathless chuckle.

“I’ve been trying to see him since I was a kid, so… yeah.” He shook his head, reminiscing on memories. His first kill—his father. Then another kill, tumbling down and down until he had hundreds of victims. All in the name of Death. 

“You know, it’s funny,” said Will through a bit of a sour smile, “how, all this time, I’ve never really done anything for myself.” He glanced down at the table. “I-I mean—obviously, my goal is to meet Death, but—other than that, I’ve never really thought of anyone else.”

He rested his chin in his palm and glanced over at Hannibal, who listened steadily, eyes unwavering.

“Sometimes I wonder who I’d be if I weren’t a killer,” he breathed, eyes running over the details in Hannibal’s face. “Maybe I’d indulge more in earthly pleasures. Other than killing.” He sighed, vaguely wondering why his heart sped up as he said the next few words while staring at Hannibal. “Maybe even… have someone close. Instead of keeping all these secrets.”

Hannibal tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “You found a potential lover?”

Will’s heart escalated at that, and the pulse in his neck thrummed. He searched the smooth details of Hannibal’s face, his expression unreadable.

“I…” He swallowed, chest tightening when Hannibal leaned close, gaze steady. “I don’t know…”

The scent of his cologne and overall presence swept through him as he breathed in, and an unwarranted heat coiled low in his belly.

“I mean… even if I did,” said Will, voice lowering into a whisper. He thickly swallowed, chills running up his spine when Hannibal glanced down at his lips.

“I don’t think I-I’d ever be…”

Hannibal leaned closer, staring Will in the eye. His gaze wavered under Lecter’s intense one.

“I don’t think I’d be at… at  _ his…”  _ His breath hitched when Hannibal rested a hand on his thigh. “At his level…”

“What do you mean by that?” breathed Hannibal, gazing at him. Will swallowed, biting his lip, heart pumping and pupils dilated.

_ Do I… love…  _

He swallowed, forcing out a breathless chuckle. “I mean, look at me. I’m psychotic. Killing for Death… wanting to  _ meet  _ him. Who’d want someone like that?”

_ Do I love Hannibal Lecter? _

“You’d be surprised,” said Hannibal, “how one can accept another for their qualities.” He glanced again at Will’s lips, which made his heart skip. “Feelings like these…  _ emotions _ … they are not to be seen in black and white.”

Will let out a shuddering sigh, belly pooling with heat at their close proximity. His chest tightened, body alight when their lips merely grazed. Electricity sprang through his heart.

Then, just before Hannibal could close the distance between them, the tea kettle screeched. Will shouted and stumbled out of his seat.

“Jesus  _ Christ—!” _

Hannibal lingered for a moment, a look glancing his face before he stood and retrieved the kettle. “No need to use the Lord’s name in vain,” he said with amusement, pouring two cups of chamomile. He turned around and placed a cup before Will, who fidgeted and cleared his throat. Light red flushed across his cheeks.

“Thanks,” he said, pulling the cup towards him and feeling its warmth through the glass. Hannibal held his cup in both hands, leaning over to rest his elbows on the table and gaze at Will.

“Did you want me to kiss you, just then?” Hannibal said suddenly.

Will choked on his tea, face exploding with heat. The sight was endearing, and Hannibal couldn’t help but tilt his head and smirk.

“I don’t—” He shook his head. “I-I don’t think I… have the answer for that right now.”

Hannibal hummed, gazing down at his half-reflection in the tea. He glanced up and slowly sipped, catching Graham’s weary eyes.

“My offer still stands, you know,” said Hannibal as he put down the glass. “It’s late.”

Will shifted in his seat and glanced aside, clearly thinking for a moment. After a moment’s pause, he sighed.

“Fine,” he said. “Where would I… where would I sleep, though?”

Hannibal smiled, a satisfied gleam in his eye. “Finish your tea first,” he said. “Then I’ll show you the guest room.”

  
  


“Some clothes for the night,” said Lecter as he handed them over to Will. 

“Oh, I…” He glanced away. “It’s alright. Do you have a couple towels, by any chance?”

Hannibal rose a brow. “Just a moment.”

He disappeared from the ornate room and returned with two soft white towels, handing them over to Will. 

“Thank you,” he said, clutching the garments to his chest. His heart thudded in his throat for no reason, and it was only when he looked up into Hannibal’s eyes that he faintly realized why—this was their first time alone together. In a bedroom, to be specific.

Will cleared his throat and bowed his head, hiding the heat flushing over his face. “Well, I’ll try to get some rest. I’ll be out of your hair in the morning.”

“Stay as long as you’d like,” offered Hannibal, his smile heard through his voice. He lightly grazed a hand up his arm before he parted. 

“Goodnight, Will.”

“Night.”

Hannibal shut the door behind him, leaving Will alone in the intense yet delicately-decorated room. He turned and pulled back the covers, placing down the towel and smoothing out the lines in it.

_ Do I want to ruin this nice bed? _

He glanced around, spotting a couch, but it was as equally ornate. He heaved a sigh and dismissed the idea, staring down at the bundle of pajamas he’d been given. Fine silk in the gentlest of greys. He stroked his fingers over the material, then—with curiosity—he brought his nose to the cloth and breathed in. A faint whiff of cologne and that familiar scent of Death mollified his mind.

_ His scent. _

He placed the garments on the couch with no intent of wearing them, stripped down, then clambered into bed, pulling the second towel over himself. Comfort settled through him in waves, and he fell asleep within minutes, images of Hannibal floating around his mind.


	18. 18

Silk bathed over him in calm, gentle waves in his slumber. Black coiling through his skin like bleeding ink.

Covered in the thick, warm blankets, nightmares seemed far away. Eventually, as consciousness ebbed over him, his mind’s images of the divine bled into reality: smell, taste, feeling, and sight. 

Will blearily opened his eyes, the faded taste of last night’s tea on his tongue. He gazed around the room and took in his surroundings —confused at first—but remembering how he got there. 

He sat up, feeling the rich, cool sheets beneath his fingertips as he let his mind wander vaguely. 

_ One of Hannibal’s beds. _

__ He came further to his senses as he took a deep breath, catching the scent of sizzling eggs and spice. He swung his legs off the bed, eyes catching the bundle of clothes on the couch. With a glance at his old clothes in a messy pile on the floor, he shrugged, stood, and slipped into the nightwear.

The soft silk slid askance his skin, and he smoothed down any wrinkles in the garments. Its soft greys suited his skin tone, and he gave a content nod at the feel of the clothes. Before he left the room, the door opened.

“Will—” came Hannibal’s voice, which was cut off as he saw Will in his sleepwear. He straightened himself and opened the door further, letting his eyes take in the sight, the endearing amusement plain to see in his eyes. 

“You wore the pajamas I gave you.”

Will shrugged, managing a smile. “They’re quite comfortable.”

Hannibal smiled. “Breakfast is almost ready. Would you like to join me?”

“I feel like ‘no’ isn’t an acceptable answer,” teased Will. 

“And right you are,” he replied. “Come. The food will burn.”

Will followed Hannibal to the kitchen, where the scent of his cooking wafted in the air. i loveGraham exhaled a pleasant sigh, closing his eyes for a moment,

“You said your mom taught you how to cook?” asked Will. 

“In a way, yes,” he said, circling around the counter and swirling the sizzling pan. “She looked at cooking in a more… spiritual sense. Rituals, and all that.”

“To honor the meal?”

“To induce power.” He glanced up at Graham. “You see, when my father and I used to hunt together, Mother would treat the meat as if it were a pig. Loathful, dirty… She said to eat them was a way to invoke one’s status. To show how far we’ve come, and a statement of where we are.”

Will rose his brows at that, glancing aside with a snicker. “That’s an awfully violent way to look at cooking.”

“It’s the way my family is,” said Hannibal. “Very strong-willed.” He grabbed a spatula and expertly lifted the eggs from the pan, the yolks still golden and full. He plated them, sprinkling herbs and other decor that made the dish speak of wealth. 

“I do hope that won’t stop you from eating my cooking. I love cooking for you.” At that, he glanced up and met Will’s eyes, who gave him a tilted smile. 

“Hard to resist your cooking, Hannibal.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said with a smile. He handed a plate to Will, picking up the other. They headed into the dining room where they sat across from each other, beginning to eat their meal of eggs and sausage in peaceful quiet.

Hannibal spoke up after finishing a forkful of eggs. “Do you think Death will present another message soon?”

“Well, now that I know it, who knows. He might stop for a month again just to toy with me.”

“You must remember though, Will. Death has other activities than these messages. His purpose as a deity  _ is  _ to undertake fallen souls.”

“I understand,” said Will, taking a bite of some sausage. The spice tingled excellently on his tongue. “But that only supports my questions as to why he even started these messages in the first place.”

Hannibal sat up straighter. “It illustrates further evidence that Death has a Legacy. Multiple deities carrying on their deed of Undertaking to offspring.”

Will chuckled at that, and Lecter tilted his head. He raised a brow, smirking with confused amusement. 

“What is it?” asked Hannibal.

“No, I’m just imagining—” He ran his hand under his chin. “—Death having a son. Could he be walking around the earth right now?” He shrugged. “Or maybe—what if he’s the one creating these messages?”

Before Hannibal could speak, Will’s phone rang. An apologetic look flashed across his face, and he muttered an “excuse me” before picking up the phone.

“Hello?” he muttered into the speaker, glancing at Hannibal. A silence hung in the air as Will listened to the other end of the line, nodding as they spoke. His face grew more serious as the call went on.

“Again?”

Dread fell over his features, twitched with annoyance. He huffed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes… yes, I’ll be there soon.”

He hung up, stuffing the phone into his silk pants. “Jack Crawford,” he said, answering Hannibal’s questioning look. “There’s been another murder, but Freddie Lounds happened to make it worse.”

“Another message?” asked Lecter with a tilt of his head.

Will shook his head. “Jack thinks so, but he’s not sure. It’s not set up exactly like the other ones.”

Hannibal’s eyes darkened at that, and he stood. “Let me come with you.”

Will nodded, standing. “I’ll get changed.” He glanced down at the food. “Sorry for ruining breakfast.”

“Not at all,” said Hannibal. “Let me get you some proper clothes.”

“I have my own—” started Will, but Hannibal already rushed down the hallway. He shook his head with amusement, waiting for Hannibal to return. When he did, and they both changed into suitable clothes, they rushed to Richmond, Virginia.

  
  


After roughly three hours, they arrived in Virginia, rolling up to yellow police tape and milling forensics. 

Hannibal and Will exited their respective vehicles, sidling up to one another as they entered the crime scene. Crawford sidled up to them.

“Ana Wilson,” he began gravely. “Sixteen years old, resident of here. Decomp shows she’s been dead for two days. Most mutilation had been done posthumously, except for what the murderer did to her face.”

“Let me see the body,” said Will.

Crawford nodded, giving the both of them glances, eyes lingering on their similar outfits. “Something happen last night?”

Heat rose to Will’s face, and he shook his head. Crawford only brushed off the answer and proceeded to lead them to the crime scene. 

Like the first message with Sonya Glazir, antlers pierced through Wilson’s body, hanging her limp body above the ground. Will walked around the scene, vaguely aware of Hannibal behind him. 

Although the display looked very similar to that of Death, Will’s eyes caught on Ana’s face—skinned and glistening with blood and wet muscle.

“They skinned her face while she was alive,” said Will lowly, eyes trailing further down.

His eyes immediately flicked over to the letter  _ ‘E’  _ sloppily painted on the girl’s exposed chest, reeking of disaster and hopelessness. Will’s brows furrowed, and he slipped on his gloves, swiping his finger across the letter.

Nothing smelled of Death here.

And he realized why as he pulled his finger away, raising it to his face to find sticky, black paint smeared on his glove.

He slowly stood, staring down at the evidence, chest tightening with something between anger and betrayal. He glanced over at Jack, then at Hannibal, meeting dark eyes—as if they understood his emotions before he could himself.

“This isn’t Death,” whispered Will, practically gritting his teeth. Hannibal and Jack stared down at the body, and everything bled with  _ wrong _ .

“This is a copycat.”

  
  


His heartbeat pounded dully in his ears. 

“I sit next to a girl on the train,” says Will, narrating the murder of Ana Wilson. He gives a smile to her, nodding and examining her features. His brows furrow in the slightest. “She looks like me.”

A flash of time goes by, and they’re still sitting, going who knows where. “We chat for a while longer… Her stop is soon. I will get off with her.”

Suddenly, the night sky yawned over him, aching and empty. No stars shone through the night. When Will looked down, he found Ana Wilson struggling in his tight hold, a ragged gag tied around her mouth.

“I whisper to her,” he breathes, huffing with the effort of keeping the girl in his arms. The killer is not the strongest. “I tell her nice things, like what I’d do to her body. How I’d  _ mock  _ it. Make my parents proud with it.”

He dragged her for a few miles, avoiding any possibilities of security cameras. Will senses, however, that—though the killer is experienced—she’s quite young. A teenager.

“I find a forest where no one can see me,” he says, throwing Wilson’s body to the ground. She screams, but no one can hear her. The sounds send thrills up his spine.

“It reminds me of home.” An empty longing aches in his chest, and he knocks Ana on the side of the head, stunning her. 

“I straddle her,” he continued, going down to his knees and keeping Ana’s body pinned beneath him. Quickly, he slips out a knife, feeling Ana struggle under him as she regained reality—like a fish out of water. Perfect, lean, writhing muscle beneath his own taut flesh.

“I press the knife to her forehead,” he whispered, sinking the tip of the blade into Wilson’s flesh. She screams through the gag, sobs tearing through her. “Shh… don’t cry… don’t cry, Ana. You’ll ruin that perfect face of yours.”

He makes the cleanest cut around her face as he can manage—she struggles with dastardly strength.

“I slide the knife under her skin,” breathed Will, heart pulsing excitedly. “I can  _ feel  _ the ligaments snapping from her flesh. I can  _ feel  _ her identity ripping from her.”

Another flash, and Ana’s detached face lay to the side as he dragged Ana’s now dead body. With effort, he hoisted the cadaver and forced it onto a head of antlers, mutilating her body.

“This is my design.”

Will opened his eyes, breathing in and out of his nose slowly. He stared down at the body with complacent eyes, daring to admit—in the back of his head—the admiration for this killer.

“She’s young,” he said softly as he felt Hannibal’s presence, and then Jack’s. 

“She?”

Will nodded, turning around to face them. “She doesn’t live here. Got on a train, got friendly with Wilson… she gained her trust to take her away.” He glanced back over at the body. “Dragged her to this forest and killed her here. Removing Ana’s face is her signature.”

Jack shook his head. “Then why copy the Vandalist Killer?”

Will twitched at that title, unhappy with how it wavered Death’s reputation. Hannibal noticed, merely smirking with amusement.

_ “Death,”  _ corrected Will. “And I don’t know that yet. Whatever this girl is doing—she plans to do it for a long time. Perhaps eternity.” He glanced back at the body, circling around it slowly and taking it all in. “Maybe Freddie Lounds inspired her to make something in the honor of Death.”

“You think Freddie Lounds is encouraging people to be copycats?”

Will shrugged. “No answers for months… messages… constant worries…” He wearily glanced at Crawford. “People get worried, Jack. Sometimes take matters into their own hands.”

Crawford huffed, running a hand over his head. “Tell me about her. What’d you find out?”

“She looks like Ana Wilson—kills girls who look like her.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “She wants to make sure she’s the only  _ her  _ out there.”

“Desperation for being unique,” chimed Hannibal.

“She’s going to be feeble and innocent on the outside. A bit weak.” He nodded as he thought through her profile. “Around sixteen years old. No home, but she’s going to need a place to store all those faces. Perhaps a fishy-looking suitcase; or maybe she leaves them at motels, who knows.”

“I’ll check foster homes and motels nearby,” said Jack. “You think she’s on the run?”

Will thought for a moment, narrowing his eyes, and shook his head. “No… despite killing, she still has her childlike nature. She’s going to want to explore—Virginia is new to her.”

Jack nodded. “We’ll take the body to the BAU, get further information. Thanks, Will.”

“You don’t want me to come with?”

Jack shook his head. “We’re done for now. Talk with Hannibal about the case, if you want.” He nodded over at Lecter, who returned the gesture. 

With one last glance, Crawford left the scene, and they took the cadaver with them. A chill wind blew through the field, and Hannibal breathed out gently.

“How does this make you feel,” asked Hannibal, “knowing there’s a copycat out there?”

Will shook his head, catching onto the unmistaken edge to his voice. “Curious,” he said. “Angry ...  _ betrayed.” _

__ “Why?”

“You’re angry too,” said Will. “I can feel you repressing it.” He turned to Hannibal, glancing up into his glinting eyes. “All this time spent creating the perfect message—all this time spent  _ waiting,  _ and this copycat interrupts the natural flow of the message.” 

He shook his head. “And Freddie Lounds can’t help but stick her hands in everything. People want Death caught now, but they won’t believe he exists as a mortal. The FBI will be in flames.”

“There will still be a message,” said Hannibal with certainty. “But… until this copycat is found, Death will want to wait. Have his message conclusive.”

Will nodded, glancing over to where the body once lay. “There’s something about this, though…” He squinted his eyes at the flattened grass. “She doesn’t have the scent of Death, but… it’s similar.”

When Graham said that, Hannibal’s brows rose. He stood next to Will’s side and took a deep breath, catching scent of a chilly river, stones and water—thin, void, acquiescent water. Hannibal took a step back, hiding his tenseness. Knowing glinted in his gaze. Will glanced back at him with a raised brow, and Hannibal merely shook his head.

“I don’t smell anything off.”

Will huffed and glanced back down, brows furrowing as he tried processing the similarity. “I wonder why it smells that way, though.”

“I’ve told you my many theories of Death,” said Hannibal. “In what I believe, Death is a Legacy, and with a Legacy comes segments. Hierarchy, status, communities. You might be catching scent of something like this.”

“Another supernatural?” Will shook his head. “But when I was imagining—”

“You didn’t know Victorum was a horseman, and yet you assumed his point of view.” Hannibal tilted his head. “The only way to find out is if we catch this killer.”

Will nodded, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll think about it at home. See you later, Hannibal.”

He nodded, giving a wave goodbye as Will walked away towards his car, leaving Hannibal with the empty crime scene. He stared down yet again at the flattened grass where the antlers once lay, kneeling down and breathing in the scent. Again, it was unmistakable.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, lingered, then left, heading to his own car.


End file.
